Unfair
by NaiveEve
Summary: She is in love, and there is nothing she can do about it. It is unfair. Cameron decides she must distance herself from House, but has he changed his mind about her? Does he object to her distancing? Rated M for smut and language.
1. Chapter 1

**Unfair**

**1**

It is unfair.

She didn't _ask_ for it.

It just happened.

After all – you can't choose who you fall in love with.

It is a devastatingly powerful force. Relentless. Unstoppable.

Sometimes she wishes she could numb herself – stop herself from feeling, because often, it becomes overwhelming.

She has no control. She feels she needs to take it back, she needs grip the reins – guide her life – but she can't.

_Caring._

This is how he describes her. _Caring._ He says it with his nose upturned and a hint of disgust to his voice – as if it is deplorable. As if she is deplorable – an unfortunate, weak creature. Pathetic.

At times, he behaves as if he is allergic to her. As if her moral certitude, her opinions, her demeanour, her smell, the sight of her – as if everything about her causes his body to twitch and rigidify in a violent reaction of repulsion.

This is how she interprets it, anyway.

This interpretation is adaptive, in a way. It motivates her – gives her something to work on.

She has also considered the fact that it may be his method of denial – that he may be focusing on the things he dislikes about her in order to comfort himself – to pretend that he doesn't want her.

She watches her reflection in the mirror as she dresses for work. Thin arms. Too thin, her mother would say. She had lost a few pounds recently. A few – that's an underestimation.

Simple white blouse on simple white skin.

Sometimes her eyes are a shocking cobalt blue. Sometimes they are a simple grey.

Today, they are a simple grey.

Simple Grey skirt. Simple grey eyes.

She has been told that she is beautiful. She has been told this many times, in fact. She had been told this by her late husband, she has been told this by her mother, her father, her sister… by a dirty construction worker on the street.

_Nice ass. _

She has been told this by ex-boyfriends, male and female friends, random men in bars.

She has been told this by him.

_I hired you because you are extremely pretty._

It was the most uncomplimentary complement she had ever received. Of course, it was not meant as a complement. It was merely an observation. He had turned his nose up to her again. Disdain.

_You're pretty, but that means nothing. You're just pretty. _

She thinks about him far too often.

She is disturbed by the things she thinks of.

What does he do when he goes home by himself at the end of the day? What cereal does he eat for breakfast? Does he eat cereal? Where does he send his dry-cleaning?

Stupid, irrelevant details. Stupid irrelevant details that she wishes she knew – because in order to know them, she would have to be close to him. Intimate.

She wishes to know the appearance of his scar. She wishes to know the feel and texture of the hair on his chest. She wishes to know the taste of him. She wishes to know the push of him inside her.

**………**

He watches her at work. Watches her with his cold blue eyes.

She pretends not to notice. She tries desperately to focus on Forman's voice as he argues his opinion of their latest case.

But she cannot concentrate. She knows his eyes are scanning her – thinking, judging.

She prods at her salad with her fork. Cucumber, tomato, lettuce, eggplant, artichoke.

No cheese, no avocado – too fatty.

Moments later, the room is clearing. Forman and Chase are leaving with files and papers – ready to fulfil their duties. She has not heard what her task is. She will have to catch up to Chase and ask him. She stands and frantically gathers her effects.

'Cameron,' his low, gruff voice stops her.

They are alone in the room.

She looks at him. Sure enough, he is staring – burning her skin with his penetrating gaze.

'Is that all you're having for lunch?' he asks, eyeing the plastic container in her hand.

_What? Why is he asking me this?_

It takes a moment for her to respond.

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Ah, I don't have time…' she says.

This is a lie. Fact is, this is all she will allow herself to have.

'Then take some time,' he says, standing and moving to the door of his adjoining office, 'go to the cafeteria and get yourself a burger or something. I don't want my Immunologist wasting away…'

'I'll be fine,' she says.

'I'm serious,' he says, his voice changing.

For a moment she detects something genuine. Concern?

'Don't worry, I'll cover you… I'll tell Chase and Forman you've got women's troubles…' he says, returning to his usual sarcasm so abruptly that she doubts she _had_ detected something softer in his expression.

He turns from her and enters his office. She watches him sit in his chair and open a draw – removing his Gameboy.

As she walks away down the hall, she succumbs to her usual routine. She over-analyses every one of her encounters with him. This conversation will play throughout her mind for the remainder of the day.

She realises that she hadn't heard the designation of her task, because she hadn't been designated one.

He has given her a break. But why?


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

She does not visit the cafeteria in her break as instructed by House. Instead, she visits Cuddy's office.

She has made a decision. She will attempt to regain control. She has to do something proactive.

'I was wondering if you could give me some more clinic hours this week,' she says, sitting in a decadent chair opposite the administrator's dark oak desk.

'What?' Cuddy asks incredulously.

'I want a bit more variety in my day, that's all,' she responds.

'Variety? No-one _asks_ for clinic hours…' Cuddy says.

'What's going on?' she adds, utilising her warmest mother-hen voice.

'I just…' Cameron starts.

'Want some time away from House?' Cuddy asks, raising a brow.

Cameron nods hesitantly.

'I knew there had to be a reason for you to _request_ Clinic duty… there is nothing worse than clinic duty…besides House.'

Cameron forces a smile.

'Sure,' Cuddy says, smiling in return, 'we could all do with some time away from House. I'll give you the rest of the day, and you can have at least five hours a day for the rest of the week if you want. Suits me fine, you know the clinic is drastically understaffed.'

'Thanks,' Cameron says, raising herself out of the chair.

**………**

A young man is seated on the examination bench in one of the clinic consultation rooms, coughing incessantly.

Cameron places her stethoscope in her ears and moves the disc over his chest.

'Deep breath in…' she says, 'and out.'

'Ok,' she says, removing the stethoscope and returning it to its customary resting place around her neck, 'you have bronchitis. I'm going to write a prescription for steroids, to help open your bronchial tubes. Hopefully that will make your cough go away.'

The door to the room opens abruptly.

'What are you doing?' House asks, appearing in front of her.

'What does it look like I'm doing? I'm with a patient,' she says.

'Well, when you're finished with this guy, I'll see you upstairs,' he says, turning back to the door.

'No,' she says, 'you won't.'

He turns back to face her. He narrows his eyes – scrutinising her with his usual curious expression.

She glances away – at the door, at the floor, at the patient – at anything to lesson the sense of being interrogated.

She looks back at him finally, studying his face. His long nose, small lips and chin. His pensive eyes and greying whiskers. The deep lines on his forehead – more prominent than usual as he furrows his brow in confusion. She briefly ponders the fact that if you are fond of someone, their flaws can be seen as attractive – because they are the idiosyncratic features which make the person distinctive and recognisable as the one you love.

She has never felt more strongly attracted to a man in her entire life.

'I'm on clinic duty for the rest of the day,' she clarifies.

'I'll speak to Cuddy,' he says.

'No use. I already have. She said the clinic is drastically understaffed.'

He regards her for a moment longer before leaving, closing the door behind him.

**………**

At home, she reads a novel by the dim light in the corner of her lounge area. Propped against the decorative lemon coloured throw cushions, her eyes scan the same sentence over and over without registering its meaning.

Exasperated, she lets the novel fall from her lap and discards her reading glasses on the side table.

He has violated her once again. Thoughts of him have infiltrated her mind – detracting from her enjoyment of _Memoirs of a Geisha._

She is thinking about the tone of his voice and the expression on his face when he had made the statement about her lunch.

_I'm serious._

She is thinking that he seemed as though he sincerely cared about her wellbeing.

_Caring._

Strange, this is _his_ word for describing _her._

She knows he is capable of being vulnerable and tender. She has seen glimpses of this side of him. The corsage he had presented on their 'date;' his expression the day she had wished him a happy birthday; his nervous demeanour when he had asked her to the monster trucks jam; the way he couldn't seem to face her when she had offered her hand to him in farewell, the night she had resigned; the brief insight he had revealed into his childhood, after she had met his parents in his office…

These were rare moments.

She realises that such tenderness is not reserved for her.

She imagines that Stacy, however, would have experienced many of these moments.

She is envious of this woman. It is obvious why he had been attracted to her. She is brash, sophisticated, bold.

Stacy Warner is Allison Cameron's opposite.

This woman had shared his bed – she would have shared much with him. She would have felt the warmth of his presence upon waking in the morning.

'_You like him, don't you?'_ the woman had asked, almost sympathetically.

Like. An understatement. Love.

Yes, that's right, love.

Why is there an impression that love is classified – that you can only love someone if you truly know them and spend almost every waking second of your time with them?

If only that were true.

No, love is a more precise mechanism, more contagious. It is easy to become infected.

She had never volunteered herself. She had never raised her hand and said, _pick me, I want to be in love with this man… this impossible, aggravating, intoxicating man._

She wishes she could tell him this._ I had no part in it. It simply happened to me. I don't want this burden, so just lay off._

She tugs carelessly at the elastic band in her hair – freeing it, allowing strands to fall around her face. She finds the hairpins which have now moved to random places, removing them one by one before massaging her scalp therapeutically.

The phone rings, halting her plan to stand and make her way to her bedroom.

Ten thirty at night. Who is calling at ten thirty at night?

This is puzzling for a moment, until her mind procures an answer.

Who would be inconsiderate enough to call this late?

Realistically there are several solutions. It could be an emergency of some sort, her parents live far away enough so that there is a substantial time delay…

Yet, somehow, she knows it is him.

She lifts the phone.

'Hello.'

'Cuddy told me that you rostered yourself on for more clinic hours,' he says, with no formal introduction, 'you lied, why?'

'House, do you have any idea what time it is?' she asks, pretending to be bothered.

She _is_ slightly bothered, but essentially, this is a thrill. This is the first time he has called her home.

'Yeah, it's ten thirty. Why, has your watch stopped?' he jokes.

'Cute,' she says, 'it's late, I'm going to bed.'

'Right,' he contends, 'good one, use my lack of social manners as an excuse to avoid answering the question.'

'If your lack of manners can excuse _something_, it's a blessing, because they certainly don't excuse you…' she responds.

'You know,' he says, his deep voice smooth and somewhat endearing, 'this thing we have going, this repartee, this back and forth, its fun… its actually turning me on, very soon I'm going to ask you what you're wearing.'

She blushes, and is silent for a moment.

When she realises that he has most likely noticed her response, or lack thereof, to this statement, she speaks quickly to fill the void.

'I just wanted to help out,' she says, answering his original question.

'Right. Then why didn't you say so when I found you in the consultation room?'

'Because you would have debated with me. I thought I'd give the response that was least likely to elicit an argument.'

'Oh, very you.'

'But, I didn't do that in an effort to avoid the unpleasantness of an argument,' she says, clarifying, 'I just wanted to get you off my back.'

'Oh,' he seems genuinely surprised, 'in that case, very _me_.'

'Yeah,' she says, 'so I told you that I was simply obeying Cuddy's instructions, and it worked, you left me alone.'

He is silent. She can hear his steady breathing. She knows he doesn't believe this lie. This makes her uncomfortable.

If she were to tell the truth she would say: _I did it because I want a break from you. It's becoming too much. I can't stand to be in a room with you anymore because you're right in front of me, but I can't touch you. I can't focus on my work. I can't even focus on myself. I don't know what's best for me anymore. It's devastating._

'And now,' she adds, uncoiling the spiral phone cord and twisting it around her index finger, 'I'm trying to think of another way to get you to leave me alone…'

'You could try the: _obeying Cuddy's instructions _thing again,' he says, 'tell me she's in your bedroom, instructing you to join her...'

'Goodnight House.'

She places the phone back on the receiver.

She notices the pull of her facial muscles – contorting her face into a smile.

She makes a conscious effort to straighten her expression, before heading to her bedroom.

**………**

Review! – if you want more…


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

Seated in the conference room, cupping her mug of coffee in her hands – waiting for it to cool to a safe drinking temperature, Cameron squints in the imposing sunlight filtering in through the windows.

'Oh, nice of you to join us Cameron,' House says sarcastically, as he enters the room behind her.

She turns to look at him.

His eyes scan her form.

Starting at her pointed heels and moving up, he views her beige slacks, white cotton shirt and beige waistcoat.

Her hair is neatly styled into a perfect chignon.

Simple, understated make-up. A hint of rouge, mascara and lipgloss – _'summer berries'_ the packaging had advertised. She wears her reading glasses.

He processes this visual information in a matter of milliseconds.

He keeps his eyes on her for only a short amount of time, attempting inconspicuousness.

But she notices.

A thorough, methodical, swift inspection.

He does this every day.

At first, she had thought it was simply a quirk of his inquisitive nature, but then she had realised that he would barely even glance at Forman and Chase upon their arrival in the mornings.

He didn't seem to care less what either of _them_ were wearing, or how their hair was styled.

Her realisation of this ritual observation had caused her to spend increasing amounts of time in front of the bathroom mirror each morning. She had begun to agonise over her outfit selection, throwing numerous items of clothing onto her bed, trying to assemble a new combination of blouse and slacks, or blouse and skirt in order to catch his attention.

_Ridiculous,_ she thinks. _How old am I? Fifteen?_

He is dressed in his usual ensemble. Jeans, button-down shirt, grey suit jacket. He didn't ride his bike today. She knows this, because if he rides his bike, he arrives in t-shirt, jeans and leather jacket, before changing into his shirt and formal jacket.

He enters his office to dispense with his backpack, before returning to the conference room to pour himself a mug of coffee.

She barely notices when Forman and Chase finally arrive.

Nor does he.

As she feigns interest in the papers on the table in front of her, she can feel him watching her – standing close beside her, stirring his coffee.

Perhaps he stands a little too close.

He often does.

It makes her heart race, and causes her temperature to rise.

She glances at him intermittently.

They both seem to imagine there is no-one else in the room.

Their silent, implicit flirtation is interrupted by Forman's keen work ethic, as he begins to scribble on the whiteboard and encourage a discussion of the case.

She bites her lip, attempting to concentrate.

She senses an opportunity when he is not aware, and her eyes wander back to him.

His button-down shirt is crumpled, as usual.

Light blue. The same colour as his eyes.

No t-shirt underneath today. The first few buttons are undone. After a moment of viewing the brown skin beneath his clavicles, her eyes flick away.

They soon flick back.

She remembers the day she had found him, high, in the men's shower room.

Nothing but a white towel on damp, hot, naked skin.

She feels her cheeks blush as she thinks about him in a different context. Not in the men's public shower room, but in the privacy of her own home – still wet, still covered only in a towel – but completely sober, and sitting on her bed. She thinks about unwrapping that towel. She thinks about parting her thighs around him and slipping into his lap – receiving him, taking all of him – arching back and having him kiss her breasts.

Sitting in the conference room, the men's voices around her are indecipherable. She feels the dampness of her arousal. Her body tingles and throbs.

She can't bear to be in a room with him because she is tortured so frequently by such vivid fantasies, and yet, at the same time, she can't bear to be separated from him when she knows there is an opportunity to be near to him…even if that opportunity involves a discussion about the state of a patient's immune system, and nothing more.

This is why she is simultaneously anticipating and dreading her impending shift of clinic duty.

She tells herself it is for the best.

**………**

Early evening.

She parks her silver Ford sedan in the cement reserve by the small community clinic. She seems to park in the same space on each of her visits. Humans are creatures of habit. The receptionist smiles in greeting and makes some innocuous comments about the whether. She nods and smiles in agreement, taking a seat in one of the ghastly green upholstered chairs. The colour closely resembles a patient's sputum she had seen earlier that day. Out of necessity, she continues to converse with the receptionist – eagerly awaiting the rap of the woman's nails on the keyboard – signifying that their exchange of superficialities has come to an end. Unfortunately the woman is skilled at multi-tasking and Cameron has to endure the detailed story of the visiting mother-in-law, accompanied by the sound of plastic fingernails on plastic computer hardware.

A familiar face rescues her at the climax of the story. Anti-climax, rather. Something to do with Jell-O.

'How has your week been Allison?' Jan asks, once inside her private office.

'Ok, I guess,' she replies hesitantly.

She eyes the coffee table in front of her. A box of tissues – just in case.

'You don't seem too certain about that,' Jan says – probing, offering a warm, encouraging smile.

'Same as usual really,' Cameron adds.

Jan nods. 'How are things at work?' she asks, crossing her legs, opening her clipboard, readying her pen.

This question usual stimulates a verbose response.

'I've asked for some time away from my boss…' Cameron says slowly, 'I've scheduled some hours in the clinic. That means less hours with him.'

'Mmmhmm,' Jan mumbles encouragingly whilst simultaneously scrawling words on the paper in front of her.

'Hopefully that will make things better,' Cameron adds.

Jan peers over her thick framed glasses. 'Could you tell me more about your boss, Allison?' she says.

'Ok,' Cameron pauses, 'I know this will sound stupid, but I have to be honest with you. I mean, that is the whole point of therapy, right?'

Jan nods, leaning forward, readying herself for a golden revelation.


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

Entering the designated meeting point, the restaurant, with its nuevo – chic décor, ludicrous pink lighting, and annoying techno-jazz muzak, she searches amongst the crowd for a head of wild blonde curls.

Liz is seated in a booth in the back corner of the room, beside the bar. She gives an embarrassingly keen wave upon seeing Cameron.

Cameron smiles to herself as she makes her way to join her best friend.

'Honey, you look _beautiful_,' Liz says, standing, clutching both of Cameron's arms and pulling her into a double cheek-kiss greeting.

'So do you,' Cameron says, 'look at you!'

Liz is seven months pregnant. She knows it's a cliché, but her friend seems to be glowing. Rosy cheeks, fresh skin, sparkling eyes.

Although – she often looks this way. Full of life. Bold and vivacious.

'I know,' the woman replies, beaming, 'can I get any bigger?'

Cameron sits, sliding her knees under the table, and watching her friend do the same – rather awkwardly.

'She's been kicking me all afternoon,' Liz says, 'and I've had to keep running to the bathroom cos she's sitting on my bladder, but other than that, it's great! I love being pregnant, it's the perfect excuse to get fat and eat anything you want!'

Cameron laughs.

'No seriously,' Liz says, 'I've ordered and eaten two of the starters while I was waiting to meet you.'

She lifts the menu. 'So,' she says excitedly, 'what are you going to have?'

Cameron smiles, placing her hand on Liz's menu and lowering it gently.

'We'll take care of that soon,' she says, 'I haven't seen you for a week, tell me how everything's been going.'

With Liz, there is always a dramatic, eventful story to be told. Cameron listens intently, smiling and laughing where appropriate. Liz talks about herself so often that anyone would think her stories are self-indulgent. They are anything but. She is a thoroughly entertaining woman, and Cameron often finds herself walking away from their meetings with a smile-stretched face. Sometimes Liz's sense of humour reminds her of House.

She had promised herself that she would not think about him tonight.

So much for that.

But, she knew it was unlikely that she would be able to keep this promise.

'Right,' Liz says, concluding her saga with a sigh, 'enough about me, what have you been up to?'

Cameron is disappointed that it is her turn to talk. Her life seems exceptionally mundane in comparison. She has no stories about kind husbands catering to pregnancy cravings at one am in the morning, meddling mother-in-laws, or crazy shop assistants in baby furniture stores.

'Ha,' Cameron scoffs, 'nothing really.'

'Sure,' Liz says, rolling her eyes as she smears Aioli over her 'trendy restaurant' fries.

'I've been sending myself to therapy,' Cameron announces.

'Therapy?'

'Yeah, things have been weird at work.'

Technically, this is not a lie. It's just not the whole truth.

'Honey,' Liz says, reaching her food-free hand out to touch Cameron's, 'you know you can talk to me right? Whenever you want to.'

'Yeah,' Cameron replies, 'I know, its just good to be able to vent to someone impartial.'

Liz nods. She has finished her fries and is now eyeing the plate that Cameron had pushed aside.

'My parents sent me to therapy after I was caught shop-lifting when I was fifteen,' Liz says.

Cameron laughs – not at all surprised.

'It was great,' Liz continues, 'I got out of school – talking about your feelings is a fabulous alternative to algebra.'

'Are you going to finish that?' she asks, pointing to Cameron's discarded Thai-beef salad.

'No, I had a late lunch at work…' Cameron says, forgetting that embellishment is a revealing sign of a lie '…and I'm not really hungry now.'

Liz doesn't recognize the dishonesty as she has already lifted the fork to her mouth.

**………**

Monday at work

She doesn't remember much about what happened.

She remembers that she went to give House the tox-screen results for their current patient.

She remembers seeing them all in the conference room – Chase, Forman, House, even Wilson.

She remembers clutching the chair at the head of the table.

She remembers seeing black dots… a blur and then nothing at all.

Now, she hears his voice – uncharacteristically soft and sensitive.

'_Hey.'_

Her eyes open and focus on the yellow corduroy upholstery of the recliner in his office. She views her body – slumped inertly in the chair.

She is _waking up_.

Waking up _in his office_.

The blinds are drawn over the glass walls, and they are hidden from the bustling public in the hall. The lights are dim. They are alone.

She wonders what had happened to Forman, Chase and Wilson.

He had instructed them to leave.

He is seated in the chair near his desk. Not behind his desk – the chair _in front_ of his desk. He is quite close. There are no obstacles between them – nothing that would prevent them from reaching out and touching one another – making contact.

He is watching her.

As usual.

His chin rests on his hands – folded neatly on top of the handle of his cane – which stands straight in front of him.

'You passed out,' he says.

She adjusts herself, moving to an upright position.

'What did you have for lunch?' he asks.

_Nothing._

'Salad,' she lies.

'Nope,' he shakes his head, 'don't think so.'

'What, you know every detail of my day? What _did_ I have for lunch then?'

'Nothing.'

'How do you know that?' she asks – her expression betraying her.

'You didn't eat anything while you were here in the conference room this morning. The nurses at the clinic said you haven't had a break all day.'

She shakes her head. 'I've been busy.'

'Not good enough,' he says.

'What?' she asks, pretending to be angry.

She is not committed to this pretence because her concentration is focused on his aberrant sensitivity, and so her voice is weak and unstable, rather than strong and direct as she had intended it to be.

'That's a lame excuse,' he adds.

She takes a breath – considers how she should handle this situation. She allows her legs to fall over the side of the chair.

'You've got a busy day ahead of you,' he says hypothetically, 'long list of things to do… one of which includes eating because you're only human, and if human's don't eat… well, they have trouble doing all of the other things on that long list. And… end up lying unconscious in their boss's office.'

'I'm fine,' she says, feigning exasperation, standing and facing the door.

'Cameron…' he says.

Much to her amazement, she feels the warmth of his skin against hers – his fingers encircling her wrist. She pauses – turns slowly and regards the image of his hand so close to hers.

She expects him to withdraw at this.

He does not.

His long fingers envelop her delicate wrist so certainly.

The sheer size of his hand – his angular bones and tanned skin contrast with her fragility – her fine bones and fair skin.

Contact.

After a moment he says: 'What's going on with you?'

'Nothing,' she insists, looking away at the floor.

And the contact is severed – her hand falls by her side, knocking gently against her thigh.

She finds her way out through the blinds and the heavy glass door.

**………**

Thanks for the reviews! Do you still wanna know where this is going? When the next chapter is posted, the story will move to the M rated section – just to be safe.


	5. Chapter 5

There is a little bit of smut in this chapter - hence the rating change (so don't read ahead if that sort of thing doesn't float your boat). Unfortunately for Cam (and House) it is only in the form of fantasy.

**

* * *

**

**5**

_He had touched her. _

He had held her wrist in his hand.

It stayed with her.

She could feel it for hours afterwards.

She could feel where his hand had been. Slightly warm – from the warmth of his body, but also slightly cold for some reason. The perspiration of his palm?

It was as if he had left an invisible mark on her, as if some sort of forensic chemical used at a crime scene could reveal his hand print on her skin.

She had thought about that moment as she walked through his office door and down the corridor. She had thought about that moment as she had entered the lift and made her way back to the clinic. She had thought about it as she was taking blood from a patient. She had thought about it as she was signing out at the clinic, as she was unlocking her car, as the motor idled at the intersection, as she was sorting through her mail, as she was preparing her dinner, as she was watching _Desperate Housewives._

She thinks about it still, as she lies back on her sofa in her now silent apartment. The television screen is blank, but still glowing from recent use. She reaches behind her to switch off the lamp and the room is thrown into darkness. As her eyes adjust, the darkness evolves from blinding black to blue and she is able to make out the basic lines of the ornaments and various items of furniture around her. She sighs and her eyes close. And then she sees them – her and him, in his office.

She sees him holding her wrist and regarding her in his usual way.

She sees him tugging at her arm and pulling her into his lap.

She sees him kissing her – so tenderly and cradling her head in his hands.

She sees him sending his hand under her skirt, up her thigh and _oh god,_ unbuckling his belt.

Now, alone in her apartment, she touches herself, as she often does, at the thought of his erection. She is trembling, and _so_ wet – _for him_.

She sees herself on her knees, taking him into her mouth and he clutches her arms and moans softly. He watches her – the entire time, he watches her just the way he usually does, as his penis swells and throbs in her mouth.

Now, she thinks about this with her fingers inside herself. She does this on his behalf. And she comes.

She is disappointed in the aftermath. She pities herself.

Little does she know, he thinks about _her_ in the same way, with his hand cupped firmly around his cock as he showers, and he feels the same pity and disappointment as he watches his semen wash down the drain – mixing with soap suds and tainted water.

**………**

She is late for her appointment. She has done this deliberately so that she will not have to converse with the receptionist.

Inside the office, she eyes the same box of tissues on the coffee table.

A navy box with a single soft white tissue protruding neatly, offering its assistance.

'Allison,' Jan says, 'last week you mentioned that you had certain feelings towards your boss. You have identified that you often feel frustrated in his presence… angry, irritated. You said that you often feel as if he doesn't respect you. You also indicated that you often feel angry with yourself because despite the way he treats you, you also have significant positive feelings towards him.'

Cameron nods, shifting in her chair – uncrossing and crossing her legs. This is the hard part. Admitting the 'angry with yourself,' part. She doesn't really have a problem admitting her love for House. She has done this before – in fact, she is sure that he is well aware of it. Everyone is well aware of it. Cuddy, Forman Chase. Though, they think of it more as a school-girl crush – they have no idea of the depth of her feelings. No, the hard part isn't admitting love.

'Could you tell me a little more about that…' Jan says, prompting gently.

Cameron takes a breath.

'To say I have _significant positive feelings_ is an understatement,' Cameron says, 'I love him.'

Jan begins scribbling frantically.

'But that's no big revelation in itself,' Cameron adds rolling her eyes to the ceiling, 'everyone knows that…'

Jan looks up.

'I'm actually more concerned with what I have been doing to myself lately…'

'What's that, Allison?' Jan says this so softly that it is barely audible.

'I haven't been eating as well as I should be. In fact, I've hardly been eating at all.'

'Why do you think that is?'

Cameron feels her bottom lip quivering. She takes a moment to answer.

'Because lately I feel as if I have no control over my life – over myself, my feelings. I know it sounds stupid, but this is a way _to take control_ – by restricting what I eat, and….'

She gasps, attempting to compose herself.

'It's ok, take your time Allison.'

'This is the worst part…' she says.

Jan waits patiently.

'I think it's because of him…' Cameron says, 'because I'm always reminded that he doesn't want me… that I'm not good enough… and I suppose in some twisted way that translates as _not attractive enough_…'

Jan nods, as if in agreement.

'I know he's found what he thinks are fundamental flaws with my personality,' she adds, 'but I can't change that. I can't change _who_ I am. But my appearance is transient, it's a part of me that I can change…'

Cameron takes a deep breath before proceeding.

'I hate the fact that I am doing this to myself because I know it's _so stupid_, it's ridiculous… but I can't stop! I hate myself for letting it get to me, for letting _him_ get to me…'

She won't look at Jan now, she stares at the box of tissues.

'I think I need to move myself as far away from him as possible,' she says.

The tears that have been swelling behind her eyes are leaking free. She cannot blink them back for a moment longer.

Jan holds the tissue box out to her.

So, they came in handy after all.

* * *

Thanks for the reviews! I know people are reading this story because it has 42 alerts, so thanks guys. 

I hope you are enjoying reading it even half as much as I enjoy writing it. I know it is a little sad at the moment, but things will start looking up for Cameron eventually (not necessarily soon... but definitely eventually)


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

She is exhausted.

Confessing to Jan had been a soothing, yet simultaneously crushing experience.

Naturally she is emotionally exhausted. She is also physically exhausted.

Her muscles burn, her head throbs, her bones ache and her eyelids are heavy and swollen.

It was as if the words spilling from her mouth – as if the process of absolution had drained her of her life force.

Exiting the elevator, the sight of the familiar hall in front of her is comforting.

She props her knee against a nearby wall and balances her handbag on her thigh, dropping her head forward and pulling at the zipper. She is amazed, and perturbed by the fact that this tiny bag always poses such a trial. Impatiently, she plunges her hand into depths of the leather satchel and begins fumbling aggressively, listening for the jingle of the small silver ring with its jagged metal keys. Dark waves of hair fall over her face like a sheet, blocking her view. With her free hand, she forces the loose strands behind her ear brusquely, and continues her agitated search.

Purse, mints, tampons, tissues, lipstick, papers, water bottle, hairbrush.

She curses under her breath, and prepares to upend to contents of the bag on a nearby bench when she hears his voice.

'Ever thought of keeping your keys in your pocket?'

Slowly, she lifts her head to see him at the end of the hall, leaning against her door.

Why hadn't she noticed him before?

He had been watching her. Again.

'I've never understood women and their handbags,' he calls to her, 'surely you don't need every item in that bag with you twenty-four seven.'

She grits her teeth and glances back at her bag, wide open like a chest cavity during a heart transplant. And miraculously, the heart is there before her – the keys have found their way to the surface, glittering conspicuously.

She exhales a breath of relief. All she will need to do is walk to the end of the hall, tell him to _get fucked_, enter her apartment and close the door in his face.

She is sure to take steady, confident steps as she strides to meet him.

When they are in close proximity, he grins ever so slightly – indistinctly.

The way he leans on her door irks her: cool, smug, arrogant, his cane hooked over his folded arms, as if he is some kind of gatekeeper.

She sighs heavily. 'You need to move,' she says to him, 'so I can get through my door.'

He pushes off the door and moves past her, purposely making contact with her shoulder.

Each key slides smoothly, turning and clicking. Three locks. Her palm is flat on the wood panelled door as she pushes it open. Her hand finds the light switch on the plaster wall inside.

'Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing here?' he says.

'I don't really care,' she says lethargically, 'I just want you to go.'

He narrows his eyes inquisitively.

She guesses he may be wondering why she doesn't seem so thrilled to find him on her doorstep late at night.

'I want to talk to you,' he says, 'I'll be quick.'

She pauses for a moment, before nodding her head once, pushing the door wide open and turning from him, motioning for him to follow as she moves across the room to the kitchen.

He enters her apartment slowly, closing the door behind him.

He stands near to her as she searches in the fridge.

'Black cat huh?' he says, as the animal winds itself between her legs in greeting.

'I'd have figured you would have gone for something white and fluffy,' he adds.

She will not even cast him so much as cold stare. She simply retrieves the can of cat food, nudges the fridge door shut with her hip and moves to the sink, as if he isn't even in the room.

She hears the rubber end of his cane and the rubber soles of his shoes on the tiled floor as he follows her and she clenches her eyes shut for a moment.

She wants to cry. She wants to plead with him to leave.

She lifts the tab on the tin, and slips her finger through the loop, peeling the lid back. A stale fishy smell permeates the space and Gia stares up at Cameron expectantly with her yellow eyes, meowing impatiently.

'You're avoiding me, aren't you?'

His hot breath in her ear.

She hadn't realised he was so close.

She gasps as her fingers slip and the merciless metal of the tin can lid slices through her flesh. She watches, and after a customary second, the vibrant red seeps slowly at first, before gushing forth and trickling in zigzag streams down her wrist. The effect is strangely beautiful. Ruby red blood against powder white skin.

'Here,' he says, quickly snatching paper napkins from the dispenser on the wall, clasping her wrist and squeezing the paper around her bleeding finger.

'Don't!' she exclaims, suddenly recoiling at his touch.

There is a vast space between them now.

She regards his expression for a moment before looking away at the floor.

Dejection?

It seems as though he has been hurt by her reaction.

She waits for him to take another step back before she returns to the sink. She uncovers the gash and the blood flows profusely again. She turns the tap to rinse her finger.

'You need to keep the pressure on it longer,' he says.

His voice is harsh now.

She ignores him.

'You're doing it wrong!' he spits, as he takes one quick step forward, turns the tap off and seizes her by the wrist.

They are both surprised by his sudden surge in anger.

His eyes remain fixed on her for a moment, moving rapidly over her features as if reading words on a page.

He glances away as he reaches for a nearby dish towel – twisting it tightly around her finger.

He waits a moment, holding her hand, and she allows him to do this.

Eventually, her hand replaces his and he moves back, carefully settling himself in the corner of the benches, his face displaying a pensive expression.

His cane standing faithfully beside him, he clasps his hands together and presses them against his mouth. His eyes are set in the way they often are at work, when he becomes frustrated with himself for not comprehending a case.

'What did you want to talk about, anyway?' she says after a long time of silence.

He looks up at her, stubbing his thumb against his chin.

'You've been on clinic duty every day this week,' he says.

She nods.

'You spend more hours in the clinic than you do with…'

He stalls.

She wonders if he was going to say 'with me.'

'…in the conference room,' he says, 'with Forman and Chase.'

She nods again.

'Why?' he asks.

She sighs and her eyes wander over to the window. Black night, dotted with stars and the lights of the city.

'You're avoiding me,' he says.

She turns back to him and confesses with a nod.

'Why?'

'Because I'm tired of you,' she says simply.

'Why?' he stands straight, raising himself to his full height.

He is by her side again.

'You know why,' she says.

'Tell me.'

'You want me to tell you how I really feel about you?'

He nods.

'I think you're a brilliant doctor. One of the best. I've been grateful to have the opportunity to work with you. But you're too much.'

'That's not what I meant. You know that's not what I meant.'

'That's the truth,' she says, 'I admire and respect you, even if you don't respect me.'

'You think I don't respect you?'

'Sometimes I doubt it.'

'I do,' he says, moving closer to her, 'respect you… very much.'

She swallows hard. She can feel the thick, strangely cold leather of his jacket touching the bare skin of her arm as it hangs loosely by her side.

'But I'm not talking about admiration and respect,' he says, '_we_ are not talking about admiration and respect. _Colleagues_ admire and respect one another.'

'We are colleagues,' she states.

'Come on,' he says, grinning slightly, 'there's a subtext here, lets bring it to the surface already, I want you to tell me what you think of me… explicitly.'

'I like you,' she says, 'I told you that.'

'Why?'

_Why. Why, why, why, why, why?_ The perpetual question.

'We've been though this,' she says, rolling her eyes.

'Why?' he says more sternly, ignoring this comment.

'Because you're a good doctor and fundamentally, a good man. It has nothing to do with your leg, or the fact that you walk with a cane – or that you've been attributed the label _cripple_,'

She is not sure if it is possible, but he moves closer still. She continues speaking despite her discomfort.

'That doesn't define you,' she says, pointing to his cane, 'I like _you_, the real you… not the stereotype, not your capacity to be nurtured and cared for…'

It seems as though all he needed was verification because she is cut short when he presses his mouth hard against hers.

She clutches fistfuls of his jacket as his free hand tangles in her hair and he grips the base of her neck. She holds his jacket as if she is clinging for dear life. The tension in her forearms and hands is the only sign of strain – the rest of her body is loose. Her head spins. She feels as if she would fall to the floor in a jellylike heap if he were to step away from her now.

It is sensual, corporeal – just as she knew it would be.

This man is dangerously intoxicating. All that remains of her in this moment is a helpless moan.

He nips gently at her lips before opening his mouth against hers. She senses this and opens her mouth in response, allowing their tongues to touch.

She tries to focus on this moment, to be mindful of every small sensation. The soft wetness of his tongue, the prickle of his whiskers on her skin, the subtle taste of him – something sweet, maybe it's the candy he always has in his pockets.

This is it. This is what she has been dreaming of – both in her sleep and in full consciousness. This is what she has been hoping for, what she has been wanting.

She wants him to fuck her.

Now.

No need to move to the bedroom, or the sofa, or even the floor. He could take her on the bench.

She would lie back across the marble and he would be inside her – finally.

But she knows this cannot happen.

She knows it would be a mistake.

She knows this kiss is a mistake.

His lips break from hers. He watches her – gauging her reaction.

She takes a deep breath and says: 'I think you should go.'

He stares at her as if he is thinking of what to say. He must decide he shouldn't say a word, because he doesn't, he just leaves.

Again, thanks for the reviews guys!


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

She cried.

When he left, she cried throughout the night.

She stumbled to her room, fell, and soaked her bed linen with tears.

Then, in the very early hours of the morning she slept.

Light, restless, unsatisfying sleep – still wearing her jeans and blouse and day underwear.

She barely felt it though. She barely felt the thick, tight denim clutching her thighs, she barely felt the pang of the elastic of her thong underwear or the sharp wire of her support bra.

She hadn't even bothered to slip under the bed covers. She had lain across the mattress with a crocked spine and her limbs sprawled around her as she cried.

Cried for him.

And in her dream she was crying out for him, crying out for hard, raw physical contact. The slick, moist, hot friction of fucking. In her dream, no matter how hard he drove himself into her, it was never hard enough.

She wakes every few moments. When she wakes finally, at 5:00 am, she is trembling with distress, and swollen with arousal.

In the shower, she considers forcing her fingers inside herself in an effort to relieve the tension, but she knows she will not be relieved; she will only be weakened – further.

She is distraught – this love has left her distraught. Love is pleasant – life's greatest joy, and yet she feels as if it is her life's greatest burden.

A dreadful, crushing, devastating experience.

She had never felt this way, not even when she held her husband's hand and felt her right to love him confiscated as he died in her presence.

Yes, she had loved Jason, but she had survived that love. She was still whole.

She loves House – but this love is far greater.

This love is superlative.

This love is shattering her.

This love is changing the very fibre of her being.

She has been presented with an opportunity. She could have him, if she wanted.

And she does want him...

Want, need, yearn, desire, _lust._

But she knows that what she wants, and what is good for her, are two entirely different things.

**……..**

She demands an appointment with Cuddy. The first appointment of the morning.

The receptionist ushers her into the office and tells her to _'take a seat.'_

In five minutes Cuddy arrives, watching Cameron as she uncurls her scarf from her neck and drapes her coat over the rack by the door.

'Cameron, what's wrong?' Cuddy asks, the concern evident in her voice as she moves behind her desk, sits neatly in the chair and regards the slender woman with her uncombed hair, drab ensemble and dark circles under her eyes.

'Is there any way I can work in this hospital, without having to work under House?' Cameron asks.

'What's happened?' Cuddy asks, exasperated.

'…another position I can take?' Cameron adds, ignoring Cuddy's inquisition.

Cuddy's eyes move over the figure seated across from her. Cameron's left knee is bouncing steadily as she nervously taps the heel of her shoe on the carpet. The young woman is rolling an ornamental paper weight in her hand, staring at it as if it is some sort of oracle. She refuses to look at Cuddy.

'Cameron,' Cuddy says softly, reaching out to touch her hand, willing her to make eye contact, 'you can tell me what's going on. Has House…. _done_ something to you?'

Lisa Cuddy prides herself on her intuition regarding human character. She knows House is difficult. He is a difficult employee, a difficult employer and a difficult being in general. He is a bully at times. He can be insensitive, inconsiderate, cruel even. She has seen his aggressive side – his violent side. She knows he is capable of brutality if provoked, but she has never considered that this violence may permeate to other circumstances. In this moment, however, regarding Cameron in her current state, Lisa Cuddy is considering whether House may be capable of rape – and the notion disturbs her, but it is her duty to consider all possibilities, no matter how improbable they many be, in order to protect her employees.

Cameron lifts her eyes immediately upon recognising the true meaning of Cuddy's question. She suddenly feels ridiculous – as if she is behaving in excess.

'No!' she exclaims.

She notices how Cuddy's shoulders relax and she shifts slightly in her chair, visibly relieved.

'It's just…I've been working for him for more than two years now, I'm bored,' she lies, 'I want something different. I just want to know: can I work in a different area in the hospital, or will I have to find a job somewhere else?'

Cuddy sighs, sensing that she should probe no further.

'We need staff down in the emergency ward,' she says.

Cameron nods eagerly.

'But any doctor could do that, Cameron. We've got interns working down there. You're talented, you should be working in diagnostics – somewhere where you can exercise your mind – somewhere where your talent can be used to its full advantage.'

'Can I try it?' she says, 'see how I like it. A couple of weeks. A month?'

'Sure,' Cuddy says, 'it's your decision, but you'll have to give House a formal letter of resignation, and I don't know how you will convince him to let you go.'

**………**

'I need to talk to you,' she says to him when she finds him alone in his office.

'I need you to get the blood work done for the Henderson woman,' he says without turning to look at her, ransacking his bookcase.

'Here,' she says.

He turns and takes the large envelope from her.

He opens the fold and eases the pages out.

'This isn't the blood work,' he says, 'what is this?'

'It's my letter of resignation,' she says sternly.

He forces it back into her hands abruptly and turns to face the bookcase again.

'Seriously,' he says, 'the blood work. Check her white cell count.'

He hears the slap of the envelope hitting his desk, disturbing loose sheets of paper and causing them to float up momentarily before drifting to the floor.

He turns to see the white tail of her lab coat disappearing through the glass door of his office.

**………**

He finds her in the clinic.

She is showing a patient into a consultation room.

He strides forth, stands between her and the elderly man, holds her elbow, guides her into the room and slams the door in the patient's face.

'House!' she exclaims.

'You're not quitting,' he says.

'We kissed. Everything is different now!'

'I know,' he agrees calmly.

'I'm working in the emergency ward as of next week.'

'Don't be stupid,' he says.

'Don't be stubborn,' she retorts, 'you're wasting your time. You won't talk me out of it. There is nothing you can say to make me stay under your employ. I _cannot_ work for you for another single day.'

His eyes move over her face as he processes this information. He decides not to comment on it. There is a more pressing issue at hand.

'Why did you tell me to leave last night?' he asks.

'Because I didn't want anything to happen,' she says quietly.

'I don't believe that.'

She looks away. He shakes her arm, causing her to look into his eyes again.

'I don't believe that you didn't _want _anything to happen,' he says.

'Nothing _can_ happen,' she says.

'I wanted to stay,' he says beguilingly, 'I wanted to kiss you again. I _want_ to kiss you again.'

'Don't,' she says firmly, 'don't say that!'

His hand tightens around her slender arm – his thumb meeting with his fingers at her bicep. His gaze is unrelenting. He will not back down.

'Don't make a big deal about this,' she says, forcing herself to look at him in an effort to communicate her resolve, 'I don't want you to pester me. I don't want to see you. Don't call me. Don't turn up at my apartment. _Please_, just accept my resignation and leave me alone.'

She uses her free hand to carefully peel his fingers from her arm. He watches as she touches him so easily. She reaches behind him and turns the handle, opening the door as far as she is able to with him standing in the way. The door is ajar – enough for the nurses at the desk in the centre of the clinic to observe any activity, and to hear any words spoken within the room. She is sure they would have heard a great deal of the conversation anyway.

After a prolonged gaze, he turns and leaves.


	8. Chapter 8

**8**

The words rush out of her mouth.

'He kissed me.'

'Who, Allison?' Jan asks politely.

'My boss.'

'And how did you feel about that?'

She is fiddling with the hem of her blouse.

After a long pause she says: 'he said he wanted to do it again.'

Jan is silent, assuming she must wait patiently for the answer to her question.

'I think he wants to…. I think he wants something to come of it,' Cameron says.

Now she is repeatedly unclasping and reclasping the latch on her watch.

'I quit. I asked him to leave me alone, but I know he won't. He called me once. He has turned up at my apartment on numerous occasions. I know he'll do it again.'

And part of her is anticipating this.

'He's so…persistent. Forceful. I'm worried that I won't be able to control myself – that I'll give in to him.'

'And how does that make you feel?'

'Terrified.'

Jan is silent again, and the word is able to reverberate throughout the room – making its overwhelming presence known.

'It sounds as if you think it would be a bad idea to get involved with this man,' Jan says after a moment, paraphrasing.

Cameron nods.

'I know him well. I know _exactly_ what it would be like. It would be difficult. Physically satisfying, emotionally abusive. There would be – there _is_ an extreme power differential. He would control me. I would do anything for him. I would be helpless.'

'Allison,' Jan says, 'it sounds as if you don't trust yourself, as if you have little self efficacy when it comes to this man.'

'Yes,' she says, certainly, 'it _will_ happen. I will sleep with him. It's only a matter of time.'

Cameron suddenly meets Jan's gaze – an ominous glint in her eyes.

………

A motor vehicle accident.

Three car pile up.

Horrific carnage.

Her sympathetic nervous system jolts into overdrive.

Adrenaline surging.

She attempts to concentrate, to block the shrill screams of distress and haunting moans of pain.

Ward B – Accidents and Emergency.

The word_ emergency_ does not suffice in describing the pace within the room – the desperate rush, the vitality, the magnitude of the consequences compounded by the preciousness of time.

'_Morphine!_….it's ok, you're doing fine, you're doing good…. _up the Morphine!_... good girl, good girl…. _MORPHINE, NOW!'_

She strokes the young girl's blood soaked hair, offering calming words in an attempt to convince her to quieten her wailing, because the sound is only intensifying her rage at the incompetent intern fumbling with the catheter.

'Give it to me!' she demands, snatching the plastic cylinder from the trembling amateur.

The girl is silenced within seconds and she takes advantage of the brief opportunity to breathe before she must attempt to stem the bleeding wounds on the patient in the next bed.

'Dr Cameron,' she hears her name called.

A nurse summons her to the door.

'Doctor in the hall was paging you - says it's urgent,' she is told.

She is expecting to be contacted by a surgeon. She is awaiting approval for the surgery of one of the accident victims, and so she responds immediately to this. If her mind had not been blurred by the pandemonium in the room behind her, she would have realised sooner.

House.

'_Damn it,'_ she exclaims under her breath as she sees him leaning on the wall by the water cooler in the corridor – just the way he had leaned on her front door.

Instantly, she turns on her heel.

'Cameron,' he says.

And she stops. She _loathes_ herself for it, but she stops at his command.

With one simple stride forth, he is beside her.

She does not turn to face him.

'Got a puzzling case,' he says cheerfully, 'need your input…'

She regains control for the briefest moment – she finds the strength to continue walking forward.

But he pursues her – immediately by her side like the nuisance he is.

In this moment, she feels that the intensity of her anger is beyond expression – that any attempt to communicate her fury would be futile, until…. he grasps her arm.

His voice continues '…thirty five year old woman presenting with…'

She turns abruptly and presses her gloved hands flat on his chest, shoving him violently against the wall.

'Fuck you!' she spits, temporarily heedless of the others in the hall.

His cane falls to the floor, pronouncing her profanity with a loud clatter. There is a dull thud also, as his body clashes with the wall.

And now, when he leans on this surface, there is no air of smug confidence, no arrogant grin.

Now, when he leans on the wall she sees only pain in his expression, rude shock and astonishment.

His mouth hangs agape. There are two perfect bloody handprints staining the blue fabric of his shirt.

And now, when she _hates_ him the most, she feels that the urge to touch him – to kiss him, is more intense than ever.

'I'm working in the emergency ward House!' she shouts.

'Emergency – do you know what that means?' she continues, 'that means it's more important than _YOU!_'

She returns to the ward to deal with the chaos in a heightened state of agitation.

………

As expected, she hears the rap of his cane on her door.

She checks the peep hole to be sure.

He is staring directly into the viewer.

She opens the door a fraction.

'I told you not to come here,' she says.

'You did, yes,' he says, 'but you knew I would. And, you saw me though the peep hole. You didn't have to open the door.'

She attempts to shut him out, only to hear a wooden _'clack,'_ sound.

His cane is obstructing the closure of the door.

'You know me, I'm insubordinate,' he says, 'I don't acquiesce to requests I find unfavourable. Case in point: you also said not to pester you, but your actions in the hall outside the emergency ward made it very clear that I crossed that line too.'

'I won't apologise,' she says.

'I'm not here for an apology,' he replies.

'What are you here for then?' she demands.

He says nothing, only his mouth curls into a sly grin.

She furrows her brow before admitting defeat – no longer attempting to decipher the meaning of this expression.

She sighs, turns from him and moves away from the door, granting him entrance – anticipating another absurd, unreasonable conversation.

The slam of the door startles her. She turns to collide with him.

'You said nothing can happen. Why?' he queries her hastily.

'What?' she says, harried.

'Us… nothing can happen, why?'

'B…b…because,' she stutters, 'we're colleagues.'

'We don't work together anymore,' he says.

He steps closer – his eyes searching hers for signs of arousal.

His eyelids are heavy, eyes – depraved. He wants her.

She hadn't anticipated that her fit of temper would rouse him.

She can tell that his body is readying itself for sex.

She backs against the wall at his advance, and he moves closer still.

She can feel his breath on her face. He hooks his cane on the nearby bookshelf and places his hand on the wall next to her head, his arm straight beside her, trapping her.

He presses his body against hers now, and her heart races.

She swallows hard.

His head is beside hers – she hears his ragged breathing, feels the faint scrape of his whiskers on her cheek.

She feels his free hand ruffle the material of her skirt, before lifting the hem. She feels the warmth of his palm on her knee, his fingers splayed. He forces her to part her legs. His hand moves behind her knee and up over the inside of her thigh, before journeying higher.

She imagines that he anticipates discovering the material of her panties.

She imagines that he expects to find them damp.

And he would find them damp – sodden, because her body is readying itself for sex also.

She gasps suddenly – a sharp intake of breath.

'Please…don't….' she mutters in his ear, before he is able to make his discovery.

He raises his head to look at her. His eyes squint, inquisitively. She is trembling – holding her breath.

'_Why?_' he asks, seemingly bewildered, dejected.

'Sometimes… you frighten me…' she confesses weakly.

His hand drops away and her skirt falls into place. He staggers backwards, horrified.

He flees.

* * *

_Hmm, how will this be resolved_...? 


	9. Chapter 9

This fic is turning out to be a little darker than I had first imagined.

* * *

**9**

She has been sobbing. Hysterically – violently.

There is no way of hiding this fact when Liz's knock is heard at the door.

She attempts to steady herself, to regulate her breathing and prevent her hiccups.

She glimpses herself in the mirror by the door and considers hurrying into the kitchen to freshen her face with a splash of water – but the knocking is ever insistent, the thumps are becoming louder and more frequent, and regardless – this effort would not help to conceal her sorrow.

It begins as soon as the door is opened.

'_Oh! Why are you crying honey?'_ Liz asks eagerly, stepping into the apartment and closing the door as an afterthought.

Cameron simply shakes her head, directing her eyes downward and clenching her jaw in an effort to detain fresh tears.

'Oh, come here, sit down,' Liz says, taking a firm hold of Cameron's arm and guiding her to the L-shaped sofa in the corner of the room.

'What's happened?' she asks, petting Cameron's hair.

Cameron fingers are curling into the cushion beside her. She is contemplating the fact that people so often bungle their attempts to console.

_Why doesn't she realise that her fussing is making me more upset? The back stroking and hair petting and low soothing voice are just prompts for more crying. Why doesn't she realise that I need to be alone now?_

She manages to utter four words and hopes, in vain, that they should stave off Liz's inquisition.

'Bad day at work.'

'Honey, you've been having many bad days at work lately,' Liz says, 'it's even put you in therapy.'

Cameron realises that her hands are balling into fists when she feels her fingernails piercing the skin on her palms.

_You don't know the half of it. _

'If you're not getting a sense of satisfaction from your job,' Liz continues, 'then maybe you should think about…'

'It's _not_ my job!' she admits suddenly.

She will not look at her friend, but she can _feel_ her stunned expression.

'Wha…' Liz starts.

'It's House,' she says, before adding: 'he was here… we almost…'

She says this suggestively enough for Liz to understand the connotation.

'I thought House was your boss?' Liz asks slowly, joining Cameron in gazing at the blue rug in the centre of the floor.

'He is…was.'

Silence.

'He just shoved me up against the wall and stuck his hand up my skirt…' Cameron concedes, 'it was awful!'

A sense of relief washes over her upon this admission. She is beginning to understand that she wants and needs this consolation.

'Did he…?' Liz demands, alarmed.

'No,' Cameron insists, 'it wasn't like that, I'm making it sound worse than it is, he just went about it in the wrong way.'

'I'll say he did!' Liz exclaims, 'what a pig!'

'Well… it was partly my fault…' Cameron starts.

'Don't you say that,' Liz reprimands her, 'it wasn't even slightly you're fault, there is no excuse for that kind of forceful behaviour. That's verging on sexual assault you know.'

Cameron closes her eyes. Already she is beginning to regret this confession.

Liz would certainly not approve. She is in blatant opposition already and she hasn't even met the man. By simply casting her eyes over him once, Liz would condemn him. His appearance alone, she would find aversive. His walking cane, his ominous stature and lame gait, the deep lines on his forehead and his latent expression of contempt. Cameron will not even consider how the interaction would unfold if they were to converse.

She imagines the questions.

_How old is he – he's got to be twenty years older than you, right? What's with the limp, is he a Vietnam veteran or something? I'll bet he's got heaps of emotional baggage, does he have any ex-wives, kids?_

'I wanted him to…' Cameron starts.

'I wanted him,' she says more defiantly, in defense of her love.

'Oh Allison… look at you, you're so upset… you're just confused, are you sure you wanted…'

'Yes.'

'Do you think that's a good idea?'

'No. I don't know. But I don't think I can hold off for much longer.'

………

She attends the Halloween function at the hospital because Forman and Chase had encouraged her to do so, and because it seemed to be a convenient substantiation of her current, _'I'm ok,'_ façade.

She is not sure what she is dressed as.

She hired the costume only hours ago – it was the only one left in her size and she hadn't thought to ask the shop assistant what it was.

When she catches her reflection in a glass door she thinks she resembles some sort of gothic prostitute.

This is apt, she thinks. Recently she has felt melancholically sexualized.

Tonight, she is feeling distinctly erotic – the character of a whore is appealing to her.

She feels as if she needs the anguish _fucked_ out of her by someone – and if it can't be _him_, it will be anyone.

She is eying Chase, the easy target, on the opposite side of the room – dressed as Beelzebub. She feels nothing when she sees this man.

Her eyes continue to scan the room and then she sees _him_.

He is the only one in the room who is not in costume.

He wears his jeans, sneakers, a creased dress shirt in some shade of blue and his grey suit jacket.

Now she feels the familiar rush of unbridled desire. This man is what she wants. This man is what her body needs.

He is seated by the table, watching people fill plastic cups with insipid, diluted, urine coloured 'virgin' punch.

She imagines he has a hip flask and is waiting for an opportunity to spike the drink.

She smiles at this thought.

When he spies her across the room, his eyes narrow and he watches her for a moment.

She has been caught staring.

She feels she should glance away – break eye contact, as is customary in such awkward circumstances, but her gaze is fixed.

He shifts his cane from its resting place in his lap, drives its end firmly into the linoleum flooring and presses his weight onto it, standing.

She is able to look away now, as he approaches.

He stands beside her, leaning against the wall as she does.

They both stare forward.

'Why aren't you in costume?' she asks, 'its Halloween, you're supposed to be dressed as something scary.'

'I am,' he says coolly, 'I'm dressed as me. Boo.'

She feels bad. She knows this is a reference to the incident inside her apartment.

She glances at him and she supposes that her costume is effective in portraying the character – whatever it may be, because he is staring, not so subtly, at the crescent shapes of her pale breasts – forced together in the tight confines of the boned corset.

His eyes flick up to meet hers.

They are corrupted with the same glint of depravity that she had noticed inside her apartment.

She recognises the residue of his arousal.

Sex.

The crowd around them becomes a buzzing blur.

She can feel the heat radiating from his body.

She wants to touch him, and so she does.

Her hand dips under the hem of his blazer and then under the hem of his shirt, and settles above the waistband of his jeans.

Skin against skin.

He pushes off the wall immediately and expels himself into the crowd, limping away.

………


	10. Chapter 10

**WARNING:**

My Id wrote this chapter. My super-ego always loses control around exam block…

Seriously though – there are some _really_, _really_ dirty lines in this chap so if you think it may offend, DO NOT read ahead.

* * *

**10**

She finds him in the hall and leads him to a dark corner.

The few lights indented into the ceiling are dimmed – casting round spots of faint orange light onto the floor of the vacant corridor.

If she likes anything about him, she likes the fact that he makes her feel bold.

She presses him against the wall and initiates a deep kiss.

Wet and slick – it feels good, but it doesn't taste good.

It doesn't taste like House.

There is a janitor, slapping his mop against the linoleum, but she doesn't care – the guy sees hundreds of staff members each day, he wouldn't recognise them, and their costumes will prevent any awkward moments of recognition in the future, during the weekday hours of nine to five.

She presses her tongue hard against his, trying to feel something – trying to become aroused.

Nothing.

Her hand slides down and scoops between his legs – cupping his alert little prick.

The boy is already hard.

Now he expects a fuck.

'Cameron,' Chase pants, 'wanna come back to my place?'

'Nuh,' she responds, tightening her grip on his cock, massaging her palm against it and causing him to release a little whimper.

A satisfied smile breaks across her face.

'Have you been drinking?' Chase asks suspiciously.

'Does it taste like I've been drinking?' she purrs, sliding her tongue over his once more.

'Cameron, what's going on?' he asks, pulling back from her, 'are you wasted again?'

'Oh, so _now_ you're concerned – I can see where your priorities lie: ask me back to your place first, and _then_ think to ask if I'm wired.'

'Are you?' he demands.

'No, just horny.'

She wishes she could be so bold with House. She wishes she could force _him_ against the wall and give him what she knows he wants.

She doesn't know why, maybe it is the character she is playing, but tonight she is feeling as if she may put herself to the test.

She wants to discover what she is capable of.

She leaves Chase in the corridor.

………

Outside his door – she hears a rich melody, building to a crescendo, surging and swelling magnificently.

She waits, listening.

She can _feel_ his emotion through the music. The notes are revealing secrets to her. It is as if she is intruding on an intensely private moment.

The melody quietens and the cords abate. He plays the final bar twice.

She waits a brief moment before knocking. Another brief moment passes before the door opens. Without a word, he stands aside, allowing her to enter. After closing the door, he watches her, silently.

She is suddenly aware that she is without a game plan.

She looks down, catching sight of her own cleavage heaving gently as she breathes. She takes only small breaths – her anxiety and the corset preventing the oxygen from filling her diaphragm completely. She is feeling light headed. She clasps her hands in front of her, before nervously picking at the black polish on her fingernails.

Now she raises her head and she is moved by the sadness she sees in his blue eyes.

'Sorry,' she offers compulsively.

A slight grin lifts the corners of his lips and she immediately regrets this apology.

She imagines that as a child, he had his mother wrapped around his little finger.

'Thought you weren't going to apologise,' he says, before turning from her and limping to the sofa.

He slumps into the corner.

She considers following him and all at once, her mind is flooded with graphic sexual images, both old and new, from the little black box of fantasy in her mind.

She sees herself bent over the arm of the sofa, her skirt bunched at her waist as he fucks her from behind.

She sees the expression of pure pleasure on his face and his broad hands splayed on her hips.

She sees herself pinned against the wall, her legs wrapped around him, her hands on his ass, urging him in deeper.

She sees herself on her knees, grasping his cock and taking him into her mouth.

There are so many _beautiful_ possibilities.

There are so many ways that this may occur, she find herself thinking that she wouldn't even know where to start.

She wants him to fuck her in every way possible – in every position, in every orifice, with every appendage.

She notices that she is trembling.

She takes a moment to compose herself – she attempts to breathe deeply, to clear her mind, to give herself a pep talk in effect.

She takes a step forward, and she feels as if this is a very significant step towards starting something.

She sits beside him on the sofa and he regards her in his usual way.

She is suddenly very aware of her appearance – and she is pleased with what it suggests. In fact, in this moment, she is wishing that it was _more_ obviously suggestive.

How could she possibly be more explicit in expressing what she feels?

Words?

What words would she use?

_I love you and I feel like I will die if I can't have you._

She shifts across the leather cushions, closer to him, and his expression remains unchanged.

He is calm, and cool as usual.

She feels something when she pauses – her face angled and only inches from his.

She feels confident, because he doesn't move – he simply waits.

His soft wet lips.

She feels them purse against hers acceptingly.

Feeling bolder by the second, she clutches handfuls of his shirtsleeves and lifts her leg over his to settle carefully into his lap.

Her lips dance over his throat – staining his skin with the mulberry coloured lipstick she had applied in the rear-view mirror of her car only moments ago.

Black red, like fresh blood.

Her tongue plays with his earlobe.

She breathes his name.

'_House.'_

It is barely audible – and she believes that it has affected him. She is sure that she can see the goosebumps on the skin of his neck, and feel them under her fingertips.

Her lips press on his again – demanding, hungry kisses.

She is relieved when he is responsive to this. He opens his mouth and welcomes her with a lazy flick of his tongue.

_This_ is the taste she is craving.

She raises herself on her knees, trying to find a better angle to impel her tongue further into his mouth. Her fingers comb through his hair as she holds his head to hers.

Deeper.

One hand on his chest, she pushes him against the sofa, causing him to lie back.

She is panting harsh breaths now as her hands search frantically for the buckle of his belt.

'Hey,' he says.

She rocks back and folds her dark waves behind her ear, preventing them from blocking her view as she shoves the hem of his t-shit up, attempting to unfasten the leather band that is acting as a barrier to the source of her arousal.

'Hey...'

She bunches his shirt up around his chest and lowers her head. He is silenced when her tongue presses flat against the area of skin below his navel, moistening the trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.

_His damn jeans. _The thick denim confining her prize.

She wants desperately to free his cock. She anticipates the sight of it. The smell, the taste.

She finds her target – the warm bulge. She looks up momentarily to see that he is watching her. She cups her hand between his thighs – her palm kneading and her fingernails scratching at the line of stitching on the crotch of his jeans. She is mildly aware of the gurgling noise in her own throat and very aware of the staggering breathes he is taking.

The leather band slides easily through the buckle.

He doesn't object when she pops the button and eases the zip down.

It is not until her fingertips broach the elastic of his underwear, and the anticipation of the impending feast is causing saliva to pool in her mouth, that he grips her arms and says _'hey,'_ in a deep, reproachful voice.

She casts a glance of disappointment at his fly: gaping open, revealing the shape of his bent erection though the thin white cotton material of his boxer briefs. The effect is that of ripped paper surrounding an eagerly awaited gift at a six year old's birthday party. In the case of this party, the gift seems to have been confiscated due to bad behaviour.

She feels she should stamp her feet like a petulant child and protest: _'why can't I have it?'_

He uses one hand to prop himself up, sitting straight on the sofa, and the other hand lodges on her shoulder, pushing her back. He lowers the hem of his shirt to cover his erection because she continues to stare at it.

'Don't get me wrong,' he says, 'the basic male in me _really, really_ wants you to do your thing, but tonight I'm taking the liberty to think with my brain rather than my dick. My frontal lobe is in charge, and I'm getting the message that this is a bad idea.'

'What?' she demands.

'You've got some major issues,' he continues, 'passive-aggressive…although, not so passive recently, and while it might make for _great_ rough sex, more generally it might not be so great.'

She stands, anger tainting her expression.

'You're a fucking tease,' she spits.

'Ha,' he scoffs, '_I'm_ the tease? I'm not the one who's been using my feminine wiles to try and get my pretty little way for the past two years.'

'_You_,' she stabs her finger at him, 'tried to _fuck me_ against the wall in my apartment yesterday.'

'Hey,' he says defensively, 'don't you dare try to turn this around, there's no way I would have even laid a finger on you if I thought you didn't want it – _and_ I backed off immediately when you gave me the word!'

'Oh yeah,' she says contemptuously, 'you're a regular gentleman.'

'You'll thank me later,' he says, adjusting himself on the sofa, 'like you said, _nothing_ can happen.'

She hates him for always, _always_ being right.

She hates him for reducing her to a quivering, transfixing state of arousal – hates him for preventing her from having a single clear thought – for reducing her to nothing but a throbbing cunt.

She hates him for staring at her with those fervent blue eyes.

She hates him for burning her skin with his fingerprints and grazing her chin with his whiskers – for leaving his mark.

She _hates_ him.

'I…' she starts, 'you…'

Hypnotized by his gaze, she takes two unmonitored steps backwards before blinking her eyes shut in an attempt to break his spell.

Now, she is able to turn and leave his townhouse, slamming the door to confirm her departure.

When she returns to her apartment, she smashes three of her mother's valuable china dinner plates. These plates belong to a matching set of six – a gift for her glory box.

Glory box. She resents the very idea of this.

It gives her great satisfaction to see the opaque white shards of porcelain distributed over the tiles.

It gives her great satisfaction to know that she has done this – she has broken something important, shattered something precious, just as he has done to her.

She reserves three plates for another time.

………

Yeah I know, _I'm_ the tease.

Sorry guys…

I promise I'll make it up to you ;)


	11. Chapter 11

This chapter is dedicated to Houseketeer.

(Thanks for the inspiration hun)

See if you can spot your reference (ok, so it's _really_ obvious…)

* * *

**11**

Shrouded in a cloak of steam, she draws random patterns – swirls and lines absently on the glass of the shower screen as she thinks of him.

Always, she thinks of him.

She remembers the taste of him – vital – like something she could survive on with no need for otherwise essential nutrients: food or water.

She remembers the feel of his tongue against hers – she could estimate the exact amount of pressure he had applied.

She remembers that he has a single freckle below and to the left of his navel.

Her fingers stop suddenly, leaving a dead-end to the trail she has created. She takes a step back to stand directly under the hard flowing stream and the deafening roar of the water pelting her head soothes her.

She regards her reflection in the mirror as she exits the shower.

She has rinsed the dye from her hair and now – saturated, it clumps in sections and slicks to her skin like shiny black tendrils.

Wet, curling locks adorn her shoulders.

She regards her fair skin – blue white under the harsh, scrutinising fluorescent lights.

The shapes of her body – her delicate, slender limbs: arms and legs. The feminine curve of her hips and breasts – although they have become smaller more recently.

Some would say she is perfect – some _have_ said she is perfect…

She accepts that she is graceful – something like a ballerina.

When she was six, her mother had driven her to the community hall each Saturday morning in her leotard, her hair pulled into a tight bun – pink ribbons and flesh coloured stockings. She had felt pretty when she had laced the slippers around her calves. Even at six she had begun to contemplate what it means to be _pretty_ – and exactly how important this is in the word – how it defines your place, and your view of yourself.

She makes a promise to rebuild her rapport with herself, to appreciate her body.

She doesn't blow dry her hair, she lets it dry naturally – watching the colour slowly reveal itself.

Deep, rich mocha black-brown.

She has hidden the blonde highlights – they were from another time in her life.

………

She notices that Jan has sensed the change.

It is only very subtle, she is barely sure of it herself.

But there is a certain _peace_ about her now – it is evident in the way she carries herself, the way she scrutinises her surroundings, the way she breathes.

Deep, cleansing breaths – she breathes effortlessly now.

She is sure Jan is regarding the way she has relaxed into the armchair in this private office.

She has not pulled her hair back, nor has she combed it. She has not added products or attempted to tame it in anyway – glorious, free, ebony waves frame her face.

She has a natural glow to her skin – her cheeks are flushed.

The mulberry lipstick has become her favourite. She stains her lips with it frequently.

Cameron is waiting for Jan's eyes to settle on hers after she has finalised the thorough inspection of the subtle, yet definite transformation.

'How are things, Allison?' Jan asks.

'My week has been just as eventful as usual,' she replies, 'if not more so.'

The surprise is evident in Jan's expression. Cameron imagines that, judging by her appearance and demeanour, Jan has expected her to report that she has returned from a relaxing retreat, or found herself a lovely young man to take her mind off this _House_ character.

'I've been engaging in what can only be described as heavy foreplay, with my boss,' she announces nonchalantly.

Jan continues to gaze at Cameron warily.

'We keep cutting it short,' Cameron continues, before adding, 'unfortunately.'

'Unfortunately? Allison, in previous sessions you have communicated your reluctance to become involved with this man, has this changed?'

'Yes, I've changed my whole outlook on the situation.'

'Is that so? Can you tell me more?'

She had thought about this a great deal over the past twenty-four hours. Originally, she had thought that she should distance herself from him, that the only way to regain control was to rid him from her life.

She _needs_ to be in control.

But she knows she also _needs_ to have him.

The two needs are apposing – or so she had thought.

On Friday night though, she had a glimpse of something.

Even if only for the briefest moment, she had him, _and_ she had control.

She had both.

And it was a thrill.

She remembers the way his skin reacted to her touch – tiny bumps – signs of his arousal. She remembers the way his mouth opened – his bottom lip fell and he was rendered speechless. She remembers his staggering, helpless breaths. She remembers the way he laid back – submissive – beneath her, and allowed her to open his belt and the zipper of his jeans.

This is where it had ended – but she knows she must appreciate this for what it is. She has resolved to consider this event in isolation – to be grateful that it had happened, no matter how much she wishes for it to have continued.

Yes, _she had been_ in control. But he had snatched it back from her.

'I told you I thought I would be helpless,' Cameron says and Jan nods to acknowledge this.

'I thought there was no way I could maintain control – that I would give myself over completely and it would destroy me…'

She watches as Jan waits patiently for more.

'But I saw him lose control for a brief moment – for that moment _I_ was in control, and now I think I can have both. I can have him, and I can have control.'

Cameron can tell that this is a source of concern for Jan.

'Allis…' Jan starts.

'I know I can't rush into it,' Cameron interrupts, 'I know everything is still very unstable.'

She knows this will not be a simple transition – she will need to pace herself, she will need to practice. In the face of setbacks, she will need to calm herself – she will need to learn from her mistakes and in order to do this she will need to be attentive, introspective and reflective.

Jan nods, apparently satisfied with this strategy.

'Allison, you're talking a lot about _control_,' Jan says, 'as we've discussed in the past few weeks, an important first step in taking control of yourself – and your life, is to learn to control your emotional reactions. You've communicated to me that you often feel as if you experience things deeply, and that your automatic emotional reactions are overwhelmingly intense. Now, you have said that you don't intend to rush into this, and I think that's most commendable, because as we have discussed, it is important to slow down, and take the time to try and understand our emotional reactions…'

'I know,' Cameron interrupts again, 'I need to spend more time thinking, and less time feeling.'

Just as he does.

………

She realises how very tentative this recent change is, when she seats herself at the table in the conference room.

She is terribly nervous – she is making a conscious effort to keep herself from shaking visibly, and to focus her mind.

But she is here – she is going through with this, and she takes this as evidence that she is capable.

She is doing this to stun him.

She is going to be brave, and she hopes to be rewarded by his incredulity.

This will give her the upper hand.

Another small, but sweet taste of control.

She answers Forman's bombardment of questions. Chase remains uncomfortably quiet in the corner.

She glides her tongue over her mulberry lips, and rearranges her soft, unruly waves of hair.

She waits…

and waits

and waits…

The sound of the door opening – the suction, the vacuum of air released as the heavy glass pane swings aside.

She can hear her heart _pounding_ in her ears.

_Thud thud thud thud thud. _

She forces herself to look at him – holding her head high, confident, aloof.

And she _is_ rewarded.

He pauses, his mouth open – forming a delectable O of surprise.

He swallows hard.

Quietly – very uncharacteristically, he moves to the whiteboard.

Forman too, displays an expression of surprise, most likely wondering why House has not announced his arrival in the usual way – with a witty, derogatory, childish remark.

After a moment – of regrouping presumably, the man turns, uncapped whiteboard maker in hand.

'Reunion of the three Houseketeers?' he says.

'Heard you could do with a consultation,' Cameron replies casually.

She imagines that if she maintains this façade for long enough, even she will begin to believe it, and eventually it will become second nature.

………

Aside from House's reaction, she is intrigued by Chase's response to her.

She watches him enter the men's locker room now.

She waits a moment – estimating the time it may take for him to undress, before she enters the room.

'Cameron what are you…?'

His voice wavers.

He quickly fastens the towel at his hip.

'Nothing I haven't seen before,' she says, striding towards him. He backs against the wall and she presses her body to his.

She smacks his hand away and loosens the knot on the towel – letting it drop to the floor, exposing him.

'It occurred to me that I may have left you a little…_disappointed_, the other night,' she says.

'Yeah, but that was the other… oh!'

She grips his cock.

'…night!'

She looks down to watch as she makes slow, steady strokes. He begins to swell and throb in her hand.

This is not rousing her, though she feels as if it is relieving some tension. She certainly feels as if she is in control, and this is all she had hoped to garner from this encounter. A sense of control.

'Someone could come in…' he chokes.

Someone could, and she finds herself hoping that that someone would be House.

'Cam… Cameron…' he stutters.

'Chase,' she says simply, 'come.'

'O…oh!'

His come spurts forth like ribbons and she is able to step aside to avoid spoiling her slacks. She is overwhelmed by the immensity of the satisfaction she experiences from having committed this act. Not pleasurable satisfaction, nothing like an orgasm – more practical satisfaction – like a job well done. She moves to the sink and flicks her hand to cast off his gluey substance, before turning the tap and washing it away completely.

When she pushes through the door, smiling to herself, she raises her head and sees him – his tall lanky frame inclining, his weight supported by the cane.

He is watching her.

She _knows_ he knows.

………

He approaches her in the car park.

'What did you do with Chase?' he demands.

She regards him silently for a moment.

'What's it to you?'

'Did you _fuck_ Chase?!' he is raising his voice now.

She casts a glance over each of her shoulders, communicating that he should lower his voice and more carefully consider his verb selection.

'You know the answer to that,' she says quietly, almost regretfully.

'Did you _fuck_ him again?'

He demonstrates no regard for the fact that they are in a public place.

He is blinded by rage, mad with jealousy and it excites her.

His eyes are bluer than ever in the direct afternoon sunlight, and they dart backwards and forth, scanning her features, searching for an answer.

'No,' she replies.

'Well he emerged from the locker room after you, with a very guilty expression – he may as well have had: _I've just had sex,_ tattooed on his forehead.'

'I jerked him off,' she spits.

She is surprised by how satisfying it is to admit this to House, but she is also ashamed. She is torn between self-satisfaction and remorse.

'And anyway,' she adds, 'like I said, what's it to you?'

She turns from him, reaching for the handle of her car door, but he grips her arm.

'What was that about then – at my place on Friday night?' he asks.

'What, you think I'm bound to you because we made out on your couch? You practically threw me out of your place like one of your hookers.'

She knows this is unfair. She guesses that in some way, he had her best interests at heart.

She realises they are both desperate.

'What a mess, hey?' she adds, almost apologetically.

He nods once, solemnly, before turning and limping away from her across the broad, flat, grey cement field.


	12. Chapter 12

I put off posting this chap for some time cos FF's alert system is buggered at the mo, but I'm sure most of you will find it...

**

* * *

**

12

In the space of one day he manages to intrigue her, charm her, insult her and leave her breathless.

She sees him for the first time in the day when, for the benefit of fresh air, she ventures out to the pond in the grounds of the hospital to eat her lunch.

But she doesn't eat her lunch, she picks it apart and tears off strips of the wholemeal bread to feed the ducks.

When a figure settles beside her, her initial reaction is one of annoyance – there are plenty of spare benches and _everyone_ knows the unwritten social law that you simply do not sit beside an unfamiliar person if other vacant chairs are available.

When she realises it is him, she is astounded.

He sits beside her – uninvited, unannounced, and largely unwelcome.

He doesn't say anything at first, and he barely smiles – it is more of a neutral expression _bordering_ on pleasant – his lips curl upwards slightly, and the deep lines have settled on his face, rather than being animated as they often are when he is irritated or vexed.

They acknowledge each other, subtly, and after some time, the uncomfortable silence relaxes into a comfortable one.

She had almost forgotten he is seated beside her, when he speaks.

'It's… been a while since I've done this, ok?'

She pauses.

_What is he insinuating?_

She looks down to watch her fingers fiddling with the remains of her sandwich on the paper wrapping in her lap – a wreck of carrot and lettuce strips and torn bread.

She looks at him.

'What?' she asks.

She detects the flash of fear behind his eyes, before he stares forward as if pretending he hadn't even spoken.

It occurs to her that she may have spoiled this moment with her incredulous inquiry, but she doesn't know how to repair the damage.

She looks down again, takes a strip of carrot, snaps it into five pieces and cradles it in her hand for a moment before tossing it forth to scatter on the grass. The ducks waddle over to inspect her offering – two decide her scraps are not worthwhile, but a third eagerly burrows its beak into the grass.

Cautiously, she rolls her eyes to the very corners of their sockets, so that she _just_ able to make out the profile of his face. He has a long face – long nose, and substantial space between the tip of his nose and the tip of his chin. When she confirms that he is staring forward, rather than at her, she turns her head ever so slightly, stealing a more substantial glimpse of him.

She looks down at her lap again when she is momentarily distracted by the greasy feel of margarine between her fingers.

She had specifically asked for a sandwich _without_ this god-awful, sickly yellow shit – but here it is.

She thinks the woman in the cafeteria has it in for her – she is morbidly obese and Cameron assumes she has it in her mind that 'the rake thin girl' deserves 'a good feeding.'

She counts herself lucky that her sandwich hasn't been smeared with lard scraped from the tray containing the 'roast of the day.'

He calls her attention back when he clears his throat with a distinct '_eh- hem.'_

She repeats her covert inspection.

He continues to stare forward, his brow dancing and his pursed lips moving about his face in mock contemplation.

Her inspection lasts for no longer than five seconds before she looks forward also, to watch the ducks preening.

After a long moment he shifts, catching her attention again. She watches him take his cane and stand.

Squinting in the bright noon sun, he nods once.

'Good talk,' he says simply, before striking the ground with his cane, trudging over the rise and making his way back to the main building of the hospital.

In utter, _utter_ confusion, she folds her arm over the slatted back of the wooden park bench and watches him retreat.

She turns away when the automatic doors hide him from her sight.

'What just happened?' she questions the nearest duck.

She realises that she has known him for more than two years and yet she doesn't seem to _know_ him at all. This is through no fault of her own though – she suspects that he doesn't even know himself.

………

To finish her break, she swims – laps in the indoor hospital pool.

Two breaststroke and two freestyle.

She needs to feel the exertion – the burn of her muscles and her lungs.

The chlorine stinging her throat – her eyes – her nasal passages.

By the second lap of freestyle, when she turns her head to gasp a breath, she thinks she sees him – his unmistakable lean figure standing at the end of the pool.

But she often thinks she sees him – in shop windows, in crowds and strolling the streets.

When she reaches the end, her head emerges, breaking the surface of the water and her eyes level with the edge of the pool.

The white tips of a pair of red _Converse All Stars_.

She tilts her head far back, taking in the sight of him as if she were a young child in New York City, staring in awe for the first time at the skyscraper buildings.

She pushes off the wall and floats on her back – hands cupped and wading water at her sides, legs kicking effortlessly, her body gliding smoothly though the water as she approaches the steps.

He follows her, walking the perimeter of the pool, the plastic soles of his shoes squelching.

At the steps, he leans forward and offers his hand to her.

She stares at it doubtfully.

He rolls his eyes.

'Oh, I'm not going to try and drown you.'

She is taken aback – charmed.

Warily, she accepts his hand. Against her cold, wet palm and fingers his skin seems to be searing hot.

She ascends the three tiled steps and arrives on his level, still holding his hand.

She thinks it would be _so_ easy to embrace him now – his action lends itself to a more intimate one. The movements would meld seamlessly. She imagines soaking his shirt and the front of his jeans by pressing her wet body against his.

Then, having been soaked considerably, the clothing would have to be removed and discarded.

Now she can see him fucking her in the pool – her back pressed against the tiles. The buoyancy would negate the inconvenience of his bad leg and give him the advantage to drive himself high into her.

His eyes lock with hers and stay locked in place until she cannot stand it for a millisecond longer. She turns her head, tugging her hand free from his.

She takes her towel from the nearby bench and makes her way to the women's shower room, feeling _insanely_ self-conscious, because she hears him following behind, and she knows his eyes are fixed on her ass.

In true House fashion, he follows her _into_ the women's locker room.

They are met with many affronted women - disgusted glares are directed at both of them. Cameron is attributed responsibility for House's presence, because he follows so closely behind that others must assume he has been invited.

'This is the _lady's_ locker room,' one woman calls.

'Yeah, I'm on a course of steroids,' House calls sarcastically in return, 'of which facial hair and deepening voice are major side effects – give me a break sister!'

Cameron cringes with embarrassment, her checks flushing pink.

She finds her temporary locker and retrieves her bag. He stands by her side the _entire_ time – silent, alert – an omnipotent presence.

She presses the towel against her face, drying her skin.

He is _leering_ at her, no doubt watching her breasts rise and fall with the effort of her heavy breathing. She is aware that her nipples are erect, and that the skin-tight Lycra of her navy coloured one-piece _Speedo_ swimsuit leaves very little to the imagination.

With the towel, she collects the tiny, transparent beads of water tickling their way down the skin of her throat and her chest.

He leans against the lockers, arm straight by her side as it had been in her apartment – his tall figure casting a shadow over her.

'What's going on between you and Chase?' he asks quietly as he watches her.

'Nothing.'

'What does that mean? Nothing substantial nothing, or nothing at all nothing?'

'House…'

He communicates his resolve by leaning into her further, brightening the intensity of his glare. She has seen it happen before – with patients, with Forman and Chase, Wilson and Cuddy, and of course, with her. He will _not_ back down from this inquisition until he is satisfied with her answers. She is aware of the power differential – the distinct similarities between this encounter and her locker room encounter with Chase.

'We hooked up a few times but there is nothing substantial,' she concedes.

'So what, you just call him over whenever you need to? A fuck buddy?'

She clenches her jaw, casts her eyes downward.

'Do you make a habit of trying to bed _all_ the men you work with?' he continues, 'tried it on Forman yet? Wilson?'

He has gone too far, and she is sure he knows this. Jealousy? Maybe he needs to hurt her for hurting him. Maybe he is questioning the legitimacy of her feelings towards him. Maybe he is considering that he isn't _special_ in her eyes after all, that she doesn't feel _uniquely_ drawn to _him_ and only him.

But she does.

It is as if they are the protagonists and everyone else in the world is an extra on set.

But what is the set? What it the theme of this movie? A whirlwind romance? So far, it has only been a whirlwind.

She wants to tell him this – she wants to tell him that everyone else and everything else is just an obstacle to reaching him.

But not now. Now she hates him again.

In being disrespectful, he has forfeited his position of power – lost the benefit of the moral high ground. She has been let off the hook.

She slips under his arm.

'I'm cold,' she says quietly, 'I need a shower.'

………

She leaves work late.

She realises what an unsightly place a car park can be when it is not filled with wealthy surgeons' glittering BMWs, Mercedes, Jaguars and Chryslers.

A crisp breeze – a shiver.

_What was that? Did I hear something?_

She glances over her shoulder nervously at the oil-stained cement wasteland.

Nothing.

_Just keep walking – faster._

The tap of her stiletto heels on the concrete matches the beat of her heart.

With a _'click,'_ and blinking lights, her car is unlocked.

She tosses her handbag onto the back seat, ducks into the car, slams the door shut and stabs the key into the ignition.

The passenger-side door opens suddenly, triggering her body's alarm system. Her heart pounds in her chest, her muscles tighten.

Fight or flight?

She considers screaming.

No use.

House.

He slips into the seat beside her.

'Oh my god! You scared the fuck out of me!' she exclaims, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm her body.

He says nothing.

'Get out,' she commands.

He reaches for her – one of his large hands slips under her hair and firmly grips her neck.

He kisses her.

She reaches for him over the arm rest and cup holder console between the seats – clutching fistfuls of his shirt, dissolving into him, deepening the kiss.

'I hate you,' she says faintly against his mouth.

'Why?' he asks, loosening the buttons on her blouse.

'Because I love you…' she admits weakly.

He silences her with another kiss, before taking her hand. With his guidance, she moves awkwardly across the centre console to sit in his lap.

His hands frame her face - fingers splayed around her ears, palms cradling her jaw.

He demands another kiss – and she complies, clashing her tongue against his.

He moves one hand inside her blouse and pushes the cup of her bra aside so that he is able to hold her breast. The other hand moves under her skirt.

His warm palm flattens on her inner thigh, as his fingers probe beneath the cotton of her underpants.

Her hands brush the firm point of his erection – throbbing through denim.

She manages to break from his mouth to cry out as his thumb finds her clit.

The sensation is electrifying. She has never felt more alive than in this moment. Involuntarily, her head drops back, and her hand searches aimlessly for something to grip before pressing against the ceiling of the car. She releases a guttural moan of primal pleasure.

'_Ugnh!'_

He dips his longest finger inside her before removing it and smearing her cream over her clit to assist in making languid, pressured strokes.

'_Ugh!'_

She feels her orgasm building, but before she is able to reach that blissful, mind numbing pinnacle…

'_Oh!'_

He is gone.

He has shifted her back to her seat and has slammed the door.

Sitting alone now, she can still taste him, still smell him, still feel him – his warmth, the enduring tingle of his whiskers on her chin and lips, the void between her thighs where his finger had slipped.

She is still throbbing and wet.

She is surprised to feel only mildly disappointed.

She is more hopeful.

Anticipating.

She knows it is only a matter of time now, before he will come to her again.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and thanks for all your lovely reviews - that's what keeps me posting (obviously) 

:) E


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** Houseketeer is a bloody GENIUS! If it wasn't for her – this chap simply wouldn't exist – and it would never have been posted on LiveJournal (nor would I "sort of" know my way around LJ)! Where do I start praising her? The medical ideas in this chap were all hers – the 'car troubles' line was hers… (and I can say its fantastic and I won't be bragging cos its not mine). I also have to thank her (profusely) for the tutorials on linking and cutting (she's so patient with her student). Seriously hun, my undying gratitude… XXX

I'm sure everyone is aware of FanFic's recent ill health - I had to load this doc from wordpad, so that explains the TERRIBLE formatting...

* * *

**13**

She has made preparations.  
She visits the salon regularly for a wax – perhaps a little too regularly. She wants to be ready for him. She is more careful in taking her pill. Her routine is regimented now – 6:30am on the dot. Recently its primary function had been cycle regulation, but now she wants to maximise the contraceptive reliability and so regimented consumption is more necessary. She wears an appealing lingerie ensemble every day. Today she selects delicately detailed eggshell-blue French lace. Fresh sheets on the bed. The scent of wild lavender. Hospital corners. But who knows, she thinks, maybe it will happen at his place, maybe in the car, maybe even at work…

At work.  
She meets him at the elevator, her briefcase in hand, his knapsack on back. She remembers dressing for him this morning and she can imagine his long, nimble fingers lifting the blue ribbon straps of her bra and slipping them off her shoulders, his mouth on the lace embellished cups, his nails clawing at the clasp.  
They join the crowd in the elevator.  
'Doctor Cameron,' he says, his chin lifted, eyes rapidly scanning her form, 'car troubles last night'  
She thinks for a moment before nodding. 'Engine started, but then it choked'  
'Hmm, how disappointing. That's been happening to you all too often lately. I know a good roadside assistance company. We should talk'  
With these three words, he levels a blue stare at her.  
We should talk.  
His meaning is now tantalizingly obvious.  
The elevator doors slide open to reveal his office at the end of the corridor. On her natural instinct, she begins to follow him, but he turns to her, stopping her with his glare. 'Go down,' he says, his voice a low rasp – almost a whisper, his breath – spearmint toothpaste. She sees herself kneeling before him as if in prayer – opening the zipper of his jeans…  
'What?' she asks.  
'Downstairs,' he clarifies in a normal tone, 'emergency ward. Work'  
He had distracted her, disoriented her. She had been blindly following him.  
He raises his eyebrows before turning from her again, moving away from the sensors so that the elevator doors close her in.

The first causality of the day – motorbike accident. The guy's helmeted head is barely attached. Of course, she thinks of him instantly.  
She rode with him once. She worries about him. The way he takes the corners, the speed – although she suspects he had driven this way to razzle her. She has entertained several scenarios. Vicodin haze, speed, tight corner, petrol tanker, emergency ward, body bag. She feels her stomach lurch. She imagines the smirk that the knowledge of her fretting would elicit from him. She watches the morgue staff collect the body before she is distracted by the frenzy of the next arrival.  
Eyeing the bib-adorned grown man laying on the gurney, Cameron furrows her brow in confusion.  
'Guy was chowing down at 'The Rusty Lure,' the paramedic informs her.  
'Symptoms?' she demands. 'In and out of consciousness,' the paramedic replies, before pointing at the patient's face, 'blue lips.' 'Asphyxia'  
'No'  
'Choking'  
'You don't think we checked that?' The paramedic is insulted. 'It's worth checking again – you said he came from a restaurant, it could have been lodged somewhere you didn't see and now it may have been loosened'  
Her inspection reveals a clear passageway.  
The man jerks upright, vomiting profusely. His seafood special is expelled from his mouth with great force. 'Food poisoning? Allergy?' Cameron suggests to her nearest colleague.  
'Sir, are you allergic to anything'  
The man continues retching before clutching his abdomen and wailing.  
'Christ….! Oh Christ it hurts….! Ah…! Oh, it feels like…like razer blades and bowling balls are passing through my intestines'  
'I know sir, but you need to tell us: are you allergic to anything'  
'Argh'  
'No allergies,' the paramedic replies, folding his arms in front of his chest. 'Then it must be food poisoning. Ciguatera? Do you know what he ate'  
'The lot'  
'Reef fish?' Cameron inquires.  
'I said, the lot,' the pissed paramedic responds.  
And then, it all happens within a short minute. Violent convulsions, blue-black skin. Flat line. 'Ok, that's definitely not food poisoning,' says one of the stunned nurses standing over the body. 'Its some kind of poisoning,' Cameron replies quietly, thinking.  
There are three more within the hour – each wearing a bib with a grinning lobster.  
Blue, bluer and bluest.  
She pages him.

…...

'Cameron's got a case for us,' he says as they enter the conference room together.  
She detects a hint or pride in his voice.  
Forman is leaning on the sink, moving a toothpick around his mouth and Chase is reclining in a chair, legs folded at the ankles, feet resting on the glass table. House lifts his cane and prods the boy's feet until they fall from the edge. 'She discovered the blue-man group down in the emergency ward,' House says, 'except their special talent isn't mime and kick-ass percussion, its rainbow yawning and convulsing'  
He moves to the whiteboard – a spring in his step, his eyes glittering. He scrawls: cyanosis, vomiting, seizures, abdominal pain, and unconsciousness, across the white surface in his graceful yet efficient handwriting. 'Four men were brought into the emergency ward within fifteen minutes of each other,' Cameron says, 'each displaying these symptoms. They had all been eating at the same seafood restaurant. Three of them died within ten minutes of admission, we managed to stabilise the other'  
'That's easy,' Chase says, 'food poisoning – seafood – ciguatera'  
'It would have to be very severe,' Forman adds, 'it only results in death in rare cases, and that doesn't explain the blue skin.' 'All of the men were from different parties, each made a different order, and one of them didn't even order seafood,' Cameron continues.  
'Huh,' House scoffs, 'what's the point in going to the best seafood joint in town if you're going to order the salad? Did you know that 'vegan' is ancient slang for the village idiot who had perfected gathering, but couldn't hunt'  
'Oh, so you discriminate against people by their food preference now too?' Forman challenges him.  
'I like to be non-discriminatory in my discrimination,' he replies, 'c'mon kiddies, do what you do best – well, do what I do best through you – brainstorm, what could account for all of these five symptoms excluding food poising'  
'Toxic Methemoglobinemia, congenital heart disease, heart attack.' Chase says, listing off several possibilities.  
'In all four men?' House says, grinning, 'why Chase, you get the award for the most stupid diagnostic suggestions of the day'  
'You asked what could cause all five symptoms,' Chase says defensively, 'I was just thinking in terms of symptom clusters'  
'Yeah, well try thinking in context as well,' House contends, 'come on, how many people would have been in that restaurant? Twenty? That's four down, sixteen to go. Ideas, ideas people! No more holding out'  
He targets Cameron with his glare.  
'…we need to act on this as soon as possible'  
Forman and Chase must assume that this statement is inconsequential, but she is aware of the momentous implication.  
She shudders. 'A bacterial infection,' Forman suggests, 'maybe the men are connected in some way – it's a seafood restaurant, maybe they're local fishermen who work on the same wharf. They may have all been exposed to the same bacteria. Melioidosis accounts for the abdominal pains and pneumonic symptoms: vomiting and cyanosis, and the seizures.' House nods, satisfied. 'Chase, Forman, what's your idea of good music?' he says. Both man stare in utter confusion.  
House directs his gaze at Chase, 'banjo?' and then at Forman, 'hood rap?' No response. 'Just as I thought. Well we need to remedy that. You're going to spend the afternoon becoming more cultured'  
The men continue to stare, dumbfounded.  
'Ah come on, that was a good one,' House says.  
He looks at her. 'Enlighten them Cameron'  
She smiles.  
'He wants pus, sputum and blood cultures,' she clarifies.  
House nods. 'You can fight over who gets what. Cameron, you stay with me'  
She smiles faintly as she watches the two men leave the room.  
'It has to be some sort of poisoning,' she says, moving to the sink, 'they've closed the restaurant, we should check'  
She turns. He is standing against her.  
His thumb is on her palm, pressing her hand against the side of the bench and his fingers fold over hers.  
She understands this as another moment where she has been granted permission to touch him and so her free hand gently settles amongst the creases of his shirt at his chest. She can feel the beat of his heart.  
He is breathing heavily and watching her through the lashes of his downcast, heavy lidded eyes. He speaks.  
'I think we should just'  
The door opens. Hands fall away quickly. 'House,' Forman calls.  
'What?!' he snarls in response, turning, 'I told you to get...' 'We've got another three in emergency,' Chase calls over Forman's shoulder. House sighs. 'Cameron's right, it might be some sort of poisoning,' he says, 'Forman you stay in the lab – get the cultures, Cameron you go with Chase to the restaurant'

…...

'So, what's going on with you and House?' Chase asks, rattling pots and pans in the evacuated kitchen of The Rusty Lure.  
She rolls her eyes.  
'Nothing. Will you make yourself useful and check out the cold room? I've got the pantry'  
'Yeah sure, nothing – that's why you resigned and moved to the emergency ward – still within the same hospital – within close proximity so that you can continue to gaze longingly at each other and exchange lingering touches here and there. And I hadn't exactly missed the fact that you're taking your pent up sexual frustration out on me'  
His irksome Australian accent becomes periphery as she inspects the mess in the pantry. It appears as if someone has rearranged the items in a frantic hurry – jars and bottles and containers are overturned and upended. Like some sort of post-modern installation artwork, there is a kaleidoscope of colourful powders and particles spilled on the floor and swirled together in a visually pleasing pattern. Earthy orange – cumin? Citrus yellow – curry, saffron?  
Crystal white – salt?  
She squats, donning a latex glove and drawing a finger though the mess.  
She thinks.  
She takes a plastic packet and small spatula from her satchel and collects a sample of the white salt-like substance.  
Chase's voice infiltrates her consciousness again, as she steps back into the main area of the kitchen.  
'…you know, it's been more than two years, I thought you would have been over him by now'  
'I found this spilt all over the pantry floor,' she says, holding the bag out for him to inspect.  
'Salt,' he says mockingly, 'common ingredient found in kitchens'  
'I bet it's not salt,' she says, 'we should collect all of the salt shakers from the tables.'

…...

'Sodium Nitrate,' House says, with careful pronunciation, 'tastes just like common table salt, is highly soluble in water and a fatal dose is only one or two grams – making it a most attractive homicidal poison'  
He is tossing his oversized tennis ball from hand to hand, scanning the reactions of each of his subordinates seated before him at the conference table. 'Kevin Jasper was fired from The Rusty Lure last Monday,' he continues, 'subsequently, his wife left with the three kids and the repo man payed a visit. Now he's lost more than just his family and furniture, he's going to the slammer for the rest of his life. Cameron was right'  
This is the second time he has made a point of highlighting her competence.  
Chase is eyeing her accusingly.  
'Well that's it – another case solved, we don't have to hold hands a reminisce,' House says, 'I can hear backlogged discharge summaries calling – get'  
The three doctors stand and make their way to the door. She walks slowly, lagging behind, waiting.  
'Cameron,' he calls, 'in my office. We need to talk'  
She smiles and turns on her heel, only to have her anticipation shattered by the beep of her pager at her hip.  
'Shit,' she exclaims under her breath, extracting the wicked device from the waistband of her skirt.  
She offers him an expression of apology and he nods.  
She returns to the emergency ward.

…...

She attempts to settle herself on the sofa in her apartment.  
Her eyes are attracted to the hands of the clock. Nursing a glass of pure distilled Vodka in her hands, she takes small sips to calm her nerves as she eagerly awaits his arrival.  
She knows he will come to her tonight.  
The astringent, bitter bite on her tongue is comforting – the clear spirit is doing its job. Even so, the sound of wood on wood – the sure rap of his cane at the door startles her and her knee bounces under the glass, causing its contents to slosh over the rim and soak into the rug. She opens the door only the few inches that the chain lock will allow.  
Blue eyes watching. Blue eyes forecasting sex.  
'I'm not letting you in until I know what might happen,' she says.  
'If you let me in, something will happen,' he replies with sincere conviction.  
This is it.  
She slides the chain through its rail and it jingles as it falls away.


	14. Chapter 14

Thanks to my special friend (and skilful editor) Houseketeer. She is a champion. The 'white noise,' line is hers, as is the 'betray himself,' line and others – she has made so many critical suggestions. Oh, I'm speechless – she is fabulous beyond words! All I can say is – this chapter is here now because of her!

Second: this chapter is **_SERIOUSLY_** explicit. No holds barred erotica. You have been warned.

* * *

**14**

_If we sleep together,_

_Will you like me better?_

_If we come together,_

_We'll go down forever…_

_-_

_Garbage_

He kisses her urgently.

It is more than anything she could have hoped for – his kiss.

So practiced and precise.

So… sufficient.

But she knows that tonight she will have more.

She will have all of him.

'Wait,' she says, because she suspects that all is moving too quickly.

Their noses are touching.

He raises his brow.

'Will you stay here tonight?' she asks meekly.

He raises his brow further, as if to say, _that's what I meant by: something will happen._

'I mean, afterwards…' she says, even though she is aware that her vulnerabilities; her neediness is showing.

He nods and his thumb presses the dimple on her chin.

His palm caresses her cheek and he kisses her again – softly this time, reassuringly.

He takes hold of her – his right hand gripping both her arm and his cane in its large capacity and he steps back until his legs bump against the arm of sofa.

He sits, and his cane falls to the ground.

She is bothered by the fact that his thick leather motorcycle jacket is impeding the proximity of their skin, and so, standing between his knees, she searches for the zipper.

It is a bothersome thing – she pulls at it but it won't budge, and so his large hands move her small ones aside to complete the task.

There is a trick, she realises, as she watches him hold the hem of the jacket with one hand before guiding the zip along its chunky mental track with the other.

She takes note for future reference.

He opens the jacket wide, revealing a black t-shirt with a detailed etching, in white, of a bucking bull, before shrugging it off his shoulders and folding it over the back of the sofa. She hears the rattle of his plastic Vicodin vial.

She smiles faintly at the familiarity of him.

'What?' he says.

'Nothing,' she replies, 'it's just that… I've been waiting for two and a half years for this.'

'I am aware of the gravity of the situation,' he says.

He hooks his leg around hers before drawing it closer so that she jolts forward suddenly, and has to grasp his shoulders to steady herself.

His long arms envelope her – his hands snaking up her back and fingers lodging on the ridges of her shoulder blades.

She cradles his head affectionately in her hands – palms on the abrasive surface of his cheeks, thumbs lodged on his cheekbones and small delicate fingers playing in his hair.

She watches him – staring, just staring with his sad, expectant eyes as she leans in to kiss him again. Her lips brush over his – sweetly, softly, like blessing.

Sacred.

He tightens his embrace, quickening the kiss.

He kisses her so gently and so deeply – his tenderness is almost moving her to tears, yet she manages to withhold the tiny, wet, salty, symbols of her weakness.

She is aware that he is enjoying the moment, indulging in it – the smell of her, the feel – her warmth.

He seems to want to make out for a while – and she is grateful for this.

_Maybe he is needy too._

He falls back on the couch now, a gentle bounce against the cushions, and she falls with him – positioned neatly along his body, nestled against him, between his legs and arms.

For a moment, she worries that she may have jarred his leg, but he doesn't complain, instead he urges her to bring her face close again – kissing her as if he has pined for her, as if they are long-time lovers finally reunited after having been separated by war, distance and time.

She knows he has sex. She imagines that he engages in frequent intercourse with prostitutes, but judging by the way he holds her – gently, as if she is a fragile ornament that he may break, the way he kisses her – meticulously; it is obvious that he is starving for this level of intimacy.

They break every few moments to view one another – to be sure of who they are making love to – eyes blinking, darting over familiar facial features, appreciating every second.

Her hands move over the soft, well washed and worn material of his clothing.

She can't imagine him ever doing something as common as trying clothing in dressing rooms and purchasing items at a checkout. She doesn't often see him wearing new items of clothing, but he must buy new things, and she guesses that when he does, he must purchase them over the internet.

She clutches a fistful of his t-shit in her hand – mindful, and appreciative of the fact that it has absorbed the warmth of his body.

Her bunching of his shirt reveals his abdomen and this glimpse of his naked skin rouses her.

Her fingers creep under his shirt now, feeling skin and hair and tautening muscles and his hands do the same, skating her ribs.

This brief glimpse of flesh – and the feel of him, reminds her that she wants his naked body in her bed and so she pulls back from him, sitting, disentangling her limbs from his.

He releases her reluctantly, and she catches his hand in hers – pulling him to an upright position.

………

She had left the light on in her bedroom and so she switches it off now.

He makes a point of turning the light back on.

Suddenly, she feels as if the moment is awkward, though their intimacy on the couch had felt quite natural.

She shuts the door – although there is no-one outside to witness what will take place, she feels as if she needs to protect their privacy. She likes the idea of being locked away in a room with him, of engaging in carnal, primal acts that no one else may be privy to.

Her thoughts of what may take place over the next hours cause a shiver of joyous, anxious anticipation.

The light, embedded in the decorative rosette molding in the centre of her ceiling seems brighter and harsher than ever.

He touches her again – stroking her arm with his knuckles, watching her with his heavy lidded eyes and kissing her forehead. His arousal is virtually emanating – surrounding him invisibly like an aura and this eases her slightly.

She moves to the nightstand beside her bed, rolls out a draw and retrieves a box to place on the surface of the table.

Condoms: because she is a careful, cautious person.

She turns to see him forcing the toes of his shoes against the heels to remove them and she waits for him on the bed.

'Well, here we are…' he says softly when he is beside her.

But he watches her with those eyes, in that way… _still_.

_Still_, he is his usual potent self.

He scoops her hair aside to kiss her slender, pale neck.

She trembles and he narrows his eyes, scrutinising her.

Even in this moment – he scrutinises her.

She doesn't want him to spoil the moment and so she practices confidence, guides his face to hers and kisses him more ardently than before. He is obviously aroused by her surge in enthusiasm and returns the kiss with vigour.

The weight of his body forces her down against the mattress.

They lay arbitrarily across the bottom of the bed.

Now it is easy again, as it was on the couch – there is a natural physical connection, but now there is something more as well.

The sense of urgency has returned – they battle against each other, tongues clashing, coiling and pushing hard, limbs twisting and pressing and pinning, hands gripping and holding and tearing at fabric. They rub against one another steadily, warm and hard and heavy. She feels his hips thrusting slowly to her – their pelvis' meeting though denim and rayon – his erection stimulated enough for him to betray himself – helplessly vocalising gratification.

This prompts a surge of confidence in her. She presses him against the mattress.

She kisses his throat – a soft nip of her teeth here and there.

'_I was born to fuck you,' _she whispers, and she delights in the expression of surprise on his face.

She unbuckles his belt, slowly, unzips his fly, slowly, uncovers him, slowly, enjoying the task for its meaning.

She licks her lips as she admires his erect penis – so ugly and yet so beautiful.

Glorious.

Hard, thick, long. It points out from his body at a straight angle – curls of graying pubic hair at its base. She wants to suck it, feel it at the back of her throat. She wants it forced hard into her, just as it was designed to be. She grips him, and this action is enough to send jolts of pleasure throughout both their bodies. She strokes – once, twice, and she smiles when he writhes on the bed.

_That will be enough,_ she thinks, removing her hand.

No gentle teasing, no licking and caressing – no, this man will feel the full force of her lust. She has been waiting for what seems like an eternity, to have this man in this position – pants around his ankles, whimpering and quivering in pleasure. He is at her mercy. He deserves to be punished for the way he has tortured her – for causing the relentless throb between her thighs. She aches for him. And now she has her chance. She wants to fuck him like he has never been fucked. She wants him to scream her name and beg – beg for more, beg for her to stop.

She takes his dick into her mouth, and he watches, moaning incessantly.

She sucks hard – vigorously moving him in and out.

Her moans match his now – and so, she thinks, does her enjoyment of this act.

He comes immediately, shuddering, grunting and groaning, clutching aimlessly…at her head, her shoulders, grasping handfuls of the bedcover, grasping anything within his reach.

He spills his salty fluid into her and she drinks it willingly.

On all fours before him, she watches him: panting – recovering from the shock of his orgasm.

She presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth, savouring the taste of him.

Finally, he looks at her, accusingly, eager for revenge.

He arranges his jeans, pulling them back to his waist and leaving them open.

He strips her.

He removes her clothing piece by piece, quickly and purposefully.

He carefully positions her across the bed – her head on the pillows and he sits back on his haunches to view her.

Naked.

Her body is highlighted by the ceiling lamp – the heat of the light burning her skin.

He can see her – all of her.

She lays before him like a perfect virgin – a sacrificial offering at an ancient altar for the gods.

She recognises the depraved look in his eyes, their colour – a darker shade of blue.

She waits, a long, agonising moment as he inspects every inch of her flesh, his eyes darting and drifting and focusing.

She begins to tremble again. She is distinctly aware that he has seized control.

He is fully clothed and she has been stripped bare.

Vulnerable.

A broad hand completely covering her small left breast, a wet kiss below the navel, fingers curling under her knees.

He parts her legs.

She feels the scrape of his whiskers on the inside of her thigh and before she is able to cry out, he has touched his tongue to her clitoris.

The sound of her breathing resembles sobbing.

'_No,'_ she mutters softly.

This is too intimate. The pleasure is too intense.

She feels as if she cannot endure it – as if her system will be overwhelmed.

Searing, tingling, throbbing pleasure.

'_Stop,'_ she sighs, bracing her palm against his shoulder, attempting to push him back and clench her knees together.

Without a word, he sits and moves his hands to her knees before sliding them down her thighs in unison, pressing her legs to the mattress – opening her.

He holds her in place firmly, legs parted so far that she is able to feel the tight pull of her thigh muscles.

His eyes are locked with hers as he lowers his head again.

It seems that he will not be denied the opportunity to taste her.

Now that he has exposed her, he is able to lavish his attention on her, flattening his tongue and making confident, firm strokes over her clit.

His tongue lapping: hot and slippery.

She looks down past her breasts. The sight of him between her thighs – his head moving as he burrows his lips and nose and tongue and chin into the damp, throbbing swell of her is immensely erotic. Carnal. Dirty.

She is thankful that he had turned the light on.

She is coming already.

He persists.

The tip of his tongue catches in the hood of her clitoris before pressing the most sensitive nub.

His hands move to her hips to lift her and she assists involuntarily as she arches off the mattress – violent waves of pleasure coursing through her.

He takes advantage of this angle, and his tongue delves inside her now, lapping and surging as deep as he can force it – his saliva and the dampness of her arousal becoming indistinguishable.

He pulls back finally, and slips two fingers inside her and she imagines that this is because he wants to feel what he has done to her – he wants to feel the clench of her orgasm.

As she lies, panting harshly he moves up her body to kiss her mouth.

'Can you taste yourself?' he whispers, before rolling his tongue over hers.

She can.

Kneeling in front of her, he hooks his thumb in the collar of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

She wants to touch his bare chest, but she is too weak in this moment – lying helpless – every muscle in her body burning and slowly relaxing after the vehement constricting effort of her orgasms.

He discards his jeans and boxer-briefs along with his shirt and sits against the bed head, watching her – an errant expression on his face.

His hard cock has reared up, standing straight and proud once again. He reaches for the small cardboard box by the bed. He continues to watch her as he rolls the condom down over his erection.

_Presumptuous_, she thinks.

_Not really, of course I'm going to fuck him. _

She shuffles close to him, lifts her knee over his body. She steadies herself by placing her hands on his shoulders and his hands move to her elbows as he assists in lowering her body to his.

She sees his scar – it is so obvious, yet she had hardly noticed it before. It is different to how she had imagined it – so _horrible_. The indentation – the absence of his thigh muscle, the thick, contorted ridges and bumps.

She hates that this has happened to him.

_Why him?_

She hopes that he hasn't noticed her brief inspection, her expression of sympathy.

This is not about pity. This is about…

_Fuck…_

His holds his cock and angles himself into her. His hands move to her hips, guiding her to sit – finding a comfortable position.

He is large. She tries to relax her muscles to take him – he eases in despite the resistance.

It is the thought that it is _him,_ that does it – _he_ is the welcome invasion in her body.

She doesn't even have the chance to settle or to grip him – she comes immediately.

Her eyes flick shut, her brow furrows and she sways – intoxicated and disoriented by the pleasure.

She opens her eyes to find him grinning in amusement.

After a moment she realises her duty in this task, and begins to move on him.

She moves weakly and he mustn't be satisfied with her rhythm, because he takes control again.

She is not sure how he manages it, but he curls one arm around her, and still inside her, he is able to move their joined bodies so that she lies on her back now, pinned beneath him, her head near the bed end. He holds her as completely as possible, and begins to make deep strokes in her. He moves precisely, his rhythm is _perfect._

He is _good_.

She knew he would be.

Her thighs press against him and she relishes in the feel of his body sliding along hers.

She cannot believe it, but she comes again.

The fickle female orgasm usually requires a precise kind of attention – the kind of attention he had lavished earlier, but over the white noise in her mind she receives a loud, clear signal – only two thoughts: _House_ and _fucking_.

This is what is causing her the most pleasure.

_That inexorable push, that blissful feeling of being filled – of being made whole… is House….fucking….me…._

She realises that her plan has backfired.

_He_ is the one who is fucking _her_ like she has never been fucked before.

_She_ is the one who wants to scream _his_ name and beg – beg for more, beg for him to stop.

Carelessly – she surrenders, assuming that she will have other opportunities to prove her point.

She opens her eyes to watch as he continues to move. His eyes flick open to meet hers and she wills him to come.

With a final stilted thrust and moan, he ejaculates and his expression of wide-eyed awe is a source of immense satisfaction for her.

Witnessing his orgasm – being the catalyst for it, is a privilege beyond comparison.

He rolls off of her quickly, almost apologetically, perhaps out of fear that he may crush her.

She misses the press of his chest against hers already.

She watches as he expertly removes the condom, before sheepishly looking for a place to dispose of it. She takes it from him, wraps it in a tissue from her dresser, drapes her white satin bathrobe over her shoulders and leaves the room, flicking the switch on her way out.

She has a drink of water in the kitchen, visits the bathroom, and stalls by talking to her cat in the living room.

She feels somewhat apprehensive about returning to him.

She wonders what he will say. She wonders what she will say.

When she does return, he is asleep, snoring as if he owns the place.

_Men,_ she thinks.

She smiles, discards her robe and settles herself beside him – keeping a safe distance so that, should he wake, she could not be accused of attempting to 'snuggle.'

She does not sleep. She watches him. She waits until his snoring subsides, and the light from the streetlamp reveals that his eyes are moving rapidly under his eyelids – both signs that he has entered the deepest stage of sleep.

This is when she presses her lips against his chest and nestles her head under his arm.

This is when she sleeps.


	15. Chapter 15

Sorry for the late update guys – I've been busy with uni stuff for a few weeks.

Thanks to Houseketeer for getting me through it!

* * *

**15**

She awakens to a strange sensation – the wet daub of an unexpected kiss to the forehead.

The ethereal blue-purple light of the early morning seeps through her low set windows – glowing in her white room.

White walls and curtains and bedsheets – the billowing, soft folds of her white feather doona consuming her, making a comforting crumpling sound as she moves.

Heaven?

The figure of a man standing beside her bed.

'I'm going now,' he whispers, shrugging his leather jacket on.

She reaches out and touches his leg affectionately in response.

He smiles and moves away from the bed.

She knows this gentle brow kiss – still cool and tickling her skin, is not a spurious gesture.

From what they shared last night, she has confirmed that he loves her.

Or else he is a very good liar.

It occurs to her for a moment that he _is_ a very good liar, but her eyes blink once, twice, three times, and sleep takes her again.

………

She has to clench her jaw to stop the smile from tearing her lips apart – to stop the joyous laughter from exploding forth.

Not appropriate she assumes, as she is currently stitching a gaping wound on a patient in the emergency ward.

She has to take a break – peel her gloves away and dispose of them, pad to the locker room in her scrubs and ADIDAS sneakers.

She shuts herself in cubicle, closes the lid on the toilet, sits and covers her face with her hands – exhausted by happiness.

She laughs. Quietly at first – a gentle chuckle, but soon she has thrown her head back and the chuckle has progressed to a loud guffaw, tears rushing over the plumped cheeks of her smile, arms folded over her aching middle.

She hears his voice above her hysterics.

'Cameron?'

He seems to make a habit of frequenting women's locker and shower rooms.

She opens the door slowly, smiling and blushing bashfully.

His brow is raised in surprise.

'How did you know it was me in there?' she asks.

'I'd know that laugh anywhere.'

'When have you ever heard me laugh like that?'

'Christmas party. Last year,' he admits.

She finds herself hooked on the fact that he has memorised her laugh – her _real_, genuine, hearty laugh; after having heard it only once – and without her knowledge.

She wants to drape her arms around his neck and decorate his cheeks with kisses, but somehow she doesn't feel free to do this.

'Dare I ask what you found so amusing in the toilet?' he says.

'Just remembering a joke Forman told.'

He nods dismissively.

'You on a lunch break now?' he asks.

'Yeah.'

'Good. Meet me at your place in 10.'

'What? Why?'

'Cos your place is closer than mine,' he says, raising his brow as if to say: _don't make me spell it out to you._

She watches as he turns and limps to the door.

She changes quickly and hurries to the car park.

………

It hadn't occurred to her that they would do this again.

If she had taken the time to think about it – it would have occurred to her, but she has found it increasingly difficult to collect and organise her thoughts of late.

'Quick,' he says, lying spreadeagled on her bed, fully clothed – shoes and all, opening his pants, 'we have to be back by one pm or we'll be questioned. You know how I hate to be questioned.'

She rolls her eyes. 'So much for foreplay.'

'Well if you hurry up and get over here I can show you a little something, we can get underway, and it all fits in schedule.'

She kicks her shoes off, removes her panties and kneels beside him on the bed.

He shoves her skirt up around her waist and makes light work with his fingers, causing her to grip the elaborate wrought iron bed head until her knuckles are white, slam her eyes shut and moan, _'god.'_

He grins. 'Told you.'

Before she knows it, he has urged her to settle in his lap and she is rocking her hips to him with more dexterity than she had demonstrated the previous night, although the affect of his potency is still noticeable – she can't look at him, she grips the bed-head for support, she mutters incoherently.

'Open your blouse,' he commands, his voice strained.

'_Why?'_ she manages to gasp, 'I thought you said…' she has to pause to catch her breath, _'…_we have to make it_… quick.'_

'Why?' he contends, 'because….men are visual creatures.'

She complies with his request.

'And while you're at it, lose the bra.'

Clumsily, she reaches behind to find the clasp. He must become frustrated with the delay because he sits, moving her body with his – keeping them both comfortable, and his soft warm hands travel over her shoulder blades to meet at her spine. He finds the clasp and flicks it open easily, before laying back and watching her, like a king surveying his empire.

One hand covers one breast – the pad of a thumb learning the crest of a nipple.

His free hand moves her skirt higher still – he is seeking her out and she is distracted by his determination, but all the while she continues to move on him as skilfully as she is able to.

'Lean back a bit,' he commands.

She complies and he is able to part the neat strip of dark pubic hair to find her clit.

'_Mmmm.'_

'Keep moving,' he says.

His fingers dig into the flesh of her thighs.

'_Ah!'_ he exclaims, 'that's it.'

'_Ugh! Argh!_'

She stills and her eyes flick open, fixing on the plaster moulding she had viewed just hours before, in the very same state.

Her orgasm washes over her, dousing her like warm water; running through her, like a transfusion.

He comes too, the frame of his body lifting hers and the blissful sound of release escaping his lips.

………

'Certainly the most efficient way to spend a lunch break,' he says as he sits on the edge of the bed, re-buckling his belt, 'why didn't we do this sooner?'

He offers her a boyish grin.

Watching him in the mirror of the dresser as she fixes her hair, she raises an eyebrow and emits a snort of laughter.

………

She has always been a social person – she is a pack animal, she needs to be surrounded by other primates – friends, family, colleagues, lovers….

She needs reassurance, support, to feel the warmth of another body... company.

She knows that _he_ is not like this.

She knows that he will come and go as he pleases.

She has accepted this.

She appreciates the benefits of living alone, anyway. She has become accustomed to it. She enjoys the privacy, the luxury of indulging in her bad habits and embarrassing past times.

Tonight she has scheduled an aromatherapy bath – complete with rose scented oil, vanilla scented candles and a relaxation CD: _The Call of the Loon._

She remembers why she bathes this way so infrequently. The oil causes her body to slip around the tub, the candles smell sickly sweet and cause a headache, the porcelain is cold against her neck, her fingers resemble prunes, and the Loon birds sound as if they are being slaughtered – slowly tortured to death. Regardless, she is determined to see her self-pampering schedule through to the end, and so she routinely dunks the loofa to soak it, before pressing it against various body parts – enjoying the tinkling sound of the perfumed water.

She thinks of him as she does this: the broad span of his shoulders, the suppleness of his skin, the weight of him, his strength, his presence, his authority. The force of his cock – steadfast, relentless… the magnificent affect on her body.

She interrupts her thoughts before she reaches the point of no return, before she feels the necessity to touch herself, because the water is now an unpleasant lukewarm temperature and there are other items on the agenda.

Manicure, pedicure, leg waxing and full facial – complete with mud mask and cucumber covers for her eyes.

She emerges from the bathroom – hair coiled in a towel and face slathered with thick brown gunk, to pre-heat the oven in preparation for her meal: chicken breast fillets with lemon butter sauce and a fresh garden salad.

Her jovial humming is drowned by the buzz of the television. She furrows her brow, the mask restricting the movement of her facial muscles as it solidifies.

She distinctly remembers switching off the television set.

Cautiously, she rounds the corner.

'House!'

'Argh!' he exclaims in mock horror.

She rolls her eyes and feels her face flushing with humiliation, under the mask.

'What are you… how did….?' she starts.

'Your door was unlocked. You should really be more vigilant when it comes to security. You could end up with strange men in your apartment,' he waggles his brow.

'Hmm,' she mutters, watching him recline on the couch, 'lucky I'm somewhat familiar with _this_ strange man.'

'At least you have an effective method of self defence – scare the living Christ out of your intruder with an ugly, liquid version of an African tribal mask.'

He turns his attention back to the television and she considers his disposition. He seems to be impossibly comfortable – he has rearranged the majority of her cushions to support his back – while one has been assigned duties on the coffee table, supporting the heels of his grey-woollen-sock-covered feet. His shoes have been discarded by the door and he has even taken the liberty of removing his belt and popping the top button of his jeans. She notices that he has fixed himself a drink of her orange juice and has not bothered to use the all too conveniently placed coasters. The magazines have been knocked from their neat stack and one, of the gossip variety, lays open at an article about Britney Spears' latest cavort.

She wonders how long he has been here.

Lazily, he rolls his head to fix his glare upon her again.

'What's for dinner?' he asks nonchalantly.

………

He amuses her over dinner and she rewards him with another sample of her most genuine laugh.

There are at least five occasions when she feels the need to say: _'I love you.'_

At_ least._

When she lies down with him later, it occurs to her that she has seen him in her bedroom, in three different lights within a single day.

Dawn.

Noon.

Dusk.

She thinks this is a good practice for new lovers.


	16. Chapter 16

I was going to say: thankyou to my wonderful Beta: Houseketeer, but she is not_ just_ a Beta, the title is not enough – in fact, I can't think of a single title that is good enough – she is so many things… she is the best.

* * *

**16**

She hears a sound above the roar of the shower.

She assumes that she must have left the bathroom door ajar, and Gia has pushed her way through to curl up in the wash basket amongst the dirty clothing as she often does. She slumps forward – fatigued, the heat of the water soothing her, yet serving also to compound her state of lethargy.

Numbers.

She thinks in terms of numbers.

Nine, two, one, two, five, ten.

Nine until two: first shift on the emergency ward.

One: a single hour, the length of her break.

Two: hours of clinic duty.

Five until ten: final shift on the emergency ward.

She wonders if Cuddy is punishing her for making things difficult, for resigning from her position under House.

On many occasions, she had considered reclaiming her position with House's diagnostic team, but when to broach the subject? In bed - while they are lying beside one another, naked, the smell of their sex still lingering in the air. While they are sitting in front of the television together – as he sniggers condescendingly at his favourite asinine programs in an exercise of arrogance. While they are eating together, laughing and conversing under the pretence that they are a normal, well adjusted _couple_. While he attempts to feed her, at her kitchen table, squashing potato fries against her cheek because she turns her head and playfully refuses to open her mouth.

There is no appropriate moment.

Not now.

Things have changed irrevocably.

She presses her forehead against the cool surface of the glass momentarily, but lifts her head when she confirms that she has heard a distinctly sharp _creak_ sound – which cannot be attributed to the cat.

She turns to see the blurred figure of a naked man entering her shower.

A shrill scream slips from her mouth and echoes in the space of the tiny, tiled room.

He grins.

'_Fuck!'_ she exclaims.

His grin widens.

'That's not funny!' she says, trembling, 'you scared me!'

'I _told you_ to lock the door.'

He kisses her hard on the mouth

'Mmmrmmhmm,' she mumbles in protest.

'Shhh,' he whispers, his wicked fingers slipping down low and persuading her to co-operate.

He knows precisely what he is doing. He finds his target without delay.

She gasps, again and again and he seems delighted by this. His glowing eyes widen and his mouth twitches, threatening to smirk.

She clutches the hot, wet flesh of his upper arms, her small fingers barely able to grip his thick, flexed bicep muscles.

He stoops to kiss her again, traversing the steady stream of water and consequently re-directing its flow over their heads. He curls his tongue into her mouth, making teasingly shallow contact – little flicks like a beckoning gesture of the hand.

Higher up, she feels something else – the head of his cock, gently nudging her navel.

She musters the strength and courage to grip him, and is rewarded with the sound of a deep rumble in his throat and the feel of his fingers being forced inside of her in an act of retaliation.

With every thrust of his fingers, and smear of his thumb, she grips and pulls harder and his groans become louder and deeper – as if in aggravation.

He advances, bearing down on her, driving her against the shower screen, pressing and holding her body in place with the strength of his own. Her head bumps against the glass, but she is distracted by his animalistic grunts, and the increasing force of the thrust of his fingers between her thighs, and his tongue in her mouth.

She is rendered speechless - shuddering and gasping as her orgasm hits while his climax is pronounced with a final loud grunt.

These are the things she is grateful for:

His come on her thigh, its viscosity gradually deteriorated by the pelting downfall of the shower.

His heavy lidded, contented eyes.

The way he holds her – even if only as a crutch, because he needs a moment to recover from his orgasm, and because he is suddenly aware of the pain in his leg.

………

She drops a white satin camisole over her head.

It falls carelessly and slips around her body – swishing and whispering against her skin.

He watches her from the bed, his long limbs stretched to the ends of the mattress, his arms behind his head in repose.

_So_, she thinks to herself, _he's_ _staying here again tonight._

No announcement of the fact, no request for permission or inquiry about any inconveniences caused.

As if he is a permanent resident, his clothing has been casually discarded over the back of the mock antique, Victorian chair in the corner of her room.

He grins and she narrows her eyes questioningly, until she notices the source of his delight – the bold protuberance behind the thin cotton of his boxer shorts.

She smiles and shakes her head.

When she settles on the bed, he wastes no time in seizing her, and fitting her body under his. His quick hands pull the camisole up to her shoulders – one hand cups her breast, while the other slips beneath her underpants.

'Again?' she says.

'What do you mean, _again?_' he contends, 'you thought we were done after the shower? That was only foreplay.'

'I don't think you can call it foreplay if you come – that's a home run.'

He laughs.

'I love it when you use sports metaphors in bed.'

'I hate sports metaphors – except in bed.'

'You're wet,' he says triumphantly, raising his head to pin her in place with his gaze.

'Yeah,' she admits, accepting his kiss.

She reaches over, fumbling to open the nightstand drawer.

'Shit,' she whispers.

'What?'

'No condoms.'

The sound he releases conveys his obvious frustration.

'We used them all!' she exclaims, 'I've been so busy, I didn't think to buy any more.'

He watches her expectantly.

'Wait a minute,' she says, forcing his weight off of her, 'I think I have one in my purse.'

After a frantic search, the contents of her purse, medicine cabinet and miscellaneous kitchen and bathroom draws are found to be disappointingly useless.

She bites her lip and drums her fingers on the bench top.

_What to do?_

For the briefest moment she considers returning to the bedroom, laying beside him and telling him:_ it doesn't really matter, I'm on the pill anyway, let's just do it._

She knows that this would please him – she knows this is what he is expecting.

But it _does_ really matter.

She taunts herself: _overly cautious, paranoid, anal…_

But she hasn't lost sight of the fact that she needs to be comfortable, to feel free to make decisions for herself, no matter how trivial, unjustifiable or disagreeable they may seem to others.

Still, she cannot shake the supreme urge – the desperate _want_ to please him.

She cannot deny him.

In the bedroom, she snatches a pair of jeans from the closet, steps into them and bounces on the spot to assist in pulling them to her hips. She tears her camisole over her head, and a bra from a nearby bureau is quickly clasped between her shoulder blades.

'Wha…' he mumbles questioningly.

'I'm going to the shop on the corner,' she says, her head appearing through the neck of a simple cotton t-shirt.

'That's not necessary,' he says feebly.

_Good,_ she imagines him thinking, _I'll just wait here for you then…_

'It's just at the end of the road, I'll be five… ten minutes.'

………

She returns in twenty-three minutes. She knew the number ten was involved, but that was just one leg of the journey – double that is twenty, add two minutes for the selection and purchase of the condoms, and one minute for the obligatory blushing and fumbling of both the customer and the shop assistant.

She finds that his head has slumped to his shoulder, and his eyes have closed.

She smiles to herself.

She knows it is a cliché, but he looks so innocent when he sleeps – so beautiful.

She is simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

She contemplates the fact that they have mastered the art of sleeping together, both metaphorically – they fuck like they invented it, giving each other the time and attention they need to reach orgasm, over and over and over; and literally – she rolls when he rolls, she pulls him onto his side when he snores, she seems to have an innate honing system for his damaged thigh, and they always manage to find the most comfortable position of limb entanglement. She cherishes both, and so, as she changes into her camisole and lies beside him, she tells herself that she is neither relieved nor disappointed, but contented.


	17. Chapter 17

17

Blinking and squinting her tired eyes, hugging her robe to her body, she pauses at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall, waiting a moment for the heavy cloud of residual sleep to clear from her consciousness. As a lengthy yawn contorts her face, she watches him, sitting at her dining table. The chair he occupies has been angled so that he is able to view the television in the lounge, and his bad leg rests on another chair, tucked beneath the table. His shoulders barely bounce as he laughs quietly – seemingly amused by the morning news report.

'_Ah-ah-ha-ah-ha-ha-huh,'_ he chuckles languidly to himself.

'What's so funny?' she asks, smiling, as she shuffles into his view.

He turns to her, displaying a smug grin.

'Truck rolled over on the bridge,' he announces, pointing to the television.

'Crushed three cars, blocked three lanes,' he adds, his eyes sparkling.

'That's _funny_?' she says disgustedly, wrinkling her nose.

'Not in itself,' he says, '_those idiots_ are funny,' he points again as the screen is filled with images from the news station's _traffic report_ helicopter.

Hundreds of cars, stopped dead, bumper to bumper. The camera zooms to capture images of people conversing outside of their cars, others reading newspapers, and those suffering from hypertension – screaming into cell phones and rapping their knuckles on steering wheels.

'_Couldn't have happened at a worse time,'_ the reporter announces, _'peak hour traffic – when literally thousands of individuals are attempting to make their way to work._'

'I'm still struggling to find the humor,' she says.

'If those people,' he responds, 'refrained from hitting _snooze_, got their lazy asses out of bed and out the door even just a _quarter_ of an hour earlier – they wouldn't get stuck in _peak hour_ traffic!'

'It's called _peak hour,' _he continues, 'because there is a certain _hour_ where the traffic density _peaks_ – if you avoid that hour, you won't find yourself in situations like this.'

He begins to chuckle again. 'Idiots. They deserve to sit in their cars for an extra hour, because they _just had_ to have that extra hour in bed.'

She crosses her arms in front of her.

'Right,' she says, 'if you're so savvy, then what are you still doing here? Shouldn't you have left _over_ an hour ago?'

'Nope,' he says, grinning, 'doesn't apply to me…'

She raises a brow.

_Naturally,_ she thinks.

'I have my bike,' he announces proudly, 'zoom up the sides of the lanes,' his hand moves like a fish though water, in demonstration, 'weave in and out, past the idiots, I'd get through that mess in ten minutes flat.'

Displaying little interest, she nods, moving to the sink.

Her eyes widen as she scans the mess before her – condiment covered cutlery lays discarded, bowls and plates tower precariously on the bench – breadcrumbs, smears of jam, and rings of milk decorate its surface and he has opened every drawer and cupboard as if in search for contraband items.

'Why does it look as if a large family has prepared breakfast in my kitchen?' she asks, turning to him.

He shrugs. 'Went to the corner store to get the paper – saw a homeless family on the way back, I don't know – we've been sharing bodily fluids so frequently, I must have contracted _Charitable-itis _from you. I invited them back to chow down, knew you would understand.'

He returns his attention to the television.

She shakes her head.

Examining the remnants, she deduces that he has had two bowls of cereal (using a _clean_ bowl the second time), a banana, a glass of orange juice, a mug of coffee, several slices of toast, _and_ he has helped himself to her left-over vegetable stir fry.

'How much do you _eat_?' she inquires, furrowing her brow as she drops the plug into the sink, along with a squirt of fluorescent green detergent. She turns the tap.

'I'm a grown man,' he responds, stretching his arms high above his head, 'gotta keep my energy up, so I can take you to bed and _ravage_ you every night.'

The sink is now brimming with white froth, hiding his dirty crockery. At this thought, she is able to relax, and concentrate on preparing her own breakfast.

A single slice of bread is lowered into the toaster.

'Toast?' he says.

She turns to face him.

'That's all you're having for breakfast?' he interrogates her, _'one_ slice of toast?'

Disconcerted, she shakes her head. 'I'll have a tub of yoghurt as well,' she says quietly.

'Oh right,' he contends sarcastically, 'that's _so much_ better. That'll tide you over til lunch.'

She is bothered by the fact that the one man she loves, and believes she should give herself over to completely, happens also to make her feel ashamed, awkward, and guarded.

She moves past him to the fridge, opens the door and bends to retrieve her low fat strawberry yogurt. She turns to see him eyeing her ass. She straightens herself, allows the door to close, and attempts to remain composed as she feels _those eyes_ roaming her body. She makes a move back to the sink but he raises his cane, pressing its end against the fridge to block her path. His arm shoots out quickly and with a hand clenched around her arm as tightly as a vice, he pulls her into his lap.

His left hand slips under her robe, while his right hand discards his cane and softly smooths her hair back.

'_One morning I'll make you breakfast in bed,'_ he whispers in her ear, though there is no need for secrecy, _'and it'll be the best you've ever had.'_

She feels goosebumps appearing over her body, a gasp lodges in her throat.

In between the gentle kiss of his lips, she feels the sharp pang of his front teeth pinching the delicate skin of her neck.

His hand journeys under her camisole, fingers trekking a path from her navel to the waistband of her underpants, while her fingers sink into denim, clawing at his good thigh.

She feels herself swelling and dampening for him.

She closes her eyes tightly, and in her mind she composes a delicious request.

_Fuck me now, right over this table._

Just as she is preparing to verbalise her request, he gently pushes her from his lap. He takes his cane, stands, and makes his way across the room.

'I'm off to combat the traffic on the bridge,' he says, stopping by the door to collect his jacket, helmet and knapsack, 'watch for me on TV, but don't blink or you'll miss me.'

Exhausted, she drops into the chair. It is still warm from his body.

The door closes as he leaves, but opens a second later.

He peers through the gap and points at the knob.

'Lock this,' he says, before closing the door again.

………

'We're co-dependent,' she announces, and Jan nods as if to say _I told you so._

She hadn't been in this office for a month because she had predicted her therapist's disapproval.

But she had returned, and she had confessed.

_We are sleeping together. A total of fourteen times to date. It's the most beautiful, wonderful thing I've ever experienced._

Rapidly darkening eyes – like the sky before a storm. The pause in breathing, the quick nod and harsh line of lips being pressed hard together to prevent reprimanding words from escaping.

She was paid to be objective, non-judgmental, to provide a cushy environment for self exploration and growth – unconditional positive regard, but she had failed.

Cameron had considered terminating her consultations completely, but she has decided to give the woman another chance.

_She's only human, and hell, if I was in her position I'd be thinking: you stupid girl._

'What's your definition of _co-dependent_, Allison?'

'Well, he stays at my place almost every night,' Cameron responds casually, 'I can't remember the last time he went back to his own place. He has boundary issues. You see, he's a bit of a loner, he only has one _actual_ friend and he _really_ takes advantage of that guy. I think once House knows he's onto a good thing – he'll milk it for all its worth. I didn't really expect it at first – I thought he would have… _issues_ with us spending too much time together – but on the contrary, we're in each others pockets! It's as if the flood gates have opened. It's as if he is saying: you want me? you can have _all_ of me.'

Jan nods.

'But the thing is…' Cameron continues, 'I know that it's unhealthy, but I like it. I really, really like having him around. We're co-dependent. He needs me, and I need him to need me.'

Jan nods, eyes wide, apparently impressed with Cameron's self analysis.

_Textbook?_ Cameron thinks to herself.

………

She lifts her key to the lock and pauses at the sound of… low fidelity percussion and drums.

She turns her head to the side and presses her ear to the door.

'…_but there's just something wrong with ya, just feel like you're the hardest little button to button…'_

The door clicks shut behind her and she slips out of her jacket, eyeing him incredulously.

He is sitting, leaning against the wall between her bookshelf and sofa – legs stretched in front of him, a shamble of CD cases spread around him on the floor.

Upon seeing her, he snatches the stereo remote and points it haphazardly at the machine, lowering the decibels.

'You've been much more vigilant with locking your door lately,' he says.

'Yeah…' she says slowly, bewildered, 'and I'm pretty sure I locked it this morning.'

'Lucky I got these,' he says, leaning to one side and retrieving something from his pocket.

He holds his hand out to her – one finger through the metal ring of a keychain.

The keychain, of the gratis, promotional, in-the-mail kind, is a plaque displaying an emblem of a stag. _The Hartford._ Three shiny, sharp new keys dangle from this chain.

_Ironic,_ she thinks. _Insurance company – breaking and entering. _

'You took my keys and had copies cut?' she says, astonished.

He rolls his eyes.

'Don't worry,' he says sarcastically, 'I had a copy of mine cut for you.'

He nods to the side table by the door before lowering his head, earnestly resuming his task.

He behaves as if this were not a portentous occasion.

Involuntarily, her bottom lip falls.

She places her own keys on the table and lifts the new set.

Another complimentary key chain: _American International Group._

She is reeling: concurrently flattered, delighted, thrilled, concerned and frightened.

She approaches him slowly, barely feeling the movement of her legs, or the impact of her feet on the hard wood floor.

'What are you doing?' she asks hesitantly.

'I'm cataloguing your record collection,' he says, 'four piles.'

He points, 'crap, crappier and crappiest.'

'Oh,' she says, 'what's pile four?'

'Pile four is borderline acceptable,' he replies, 'Coldplay, Jet, The Strokes and The White Stripes.'

She nods.

'There was a pile five, but I decided it was wasting space on the rug – it was relocated to the trash,' he nods to the kitchen and she follows his gaze to find the lid of the trashcan ajar, the plastic corners of CD cases protruding.

'Oh my god you're not joking!' she whinges.

'Nope,' he says, raising his brow and curling his lips in that endearing way.

'What did you throw out?!' she demands.

'I don't know if I can speak the name,' he says, performing a mock shudder and gag.

She quickly moves to the kitchen, lifts the flip lid of the trash can and retrieves three CD cases. Mariah Carey: _The Emancipation of Mimi_, The Spice Girls: _Spice_, and the _Dirty Dancing_ Soundtrack.

'I almost dumped you when I saw the whining wench Mariah,' he says, 'but I decided against taking such drastic action because of that _mind blowing_ thing you do with your tongue…'

She briefly ponders the fact that in order to be _'dumped,'_ one must first be involved in a significant relationship. She considers this comment to be the equivalent of him calling her his 'girlfriend,' and ridiculous, 1950's phrases about _going steady_, waft through her mind.

'It was a Christmas gift from my sister in law,' she says, dropping two CDs back in the trash, and hiding the _Dirty Dancing _Soundtrack between some cookbooks on a shelf above the microwave.

'Well I hope you tried your very best to stop her from marrying into the family,' he says.

She returns to the living room and sits on the sofa beside him. She watches as he continues to rifle through her collection, scratching his chin in contemplation – producing the sound of sandpaper on splintered wood.

'You put James Blunt in the _crap_ pile?' she says.

He turns to face her.

'Cameron: _Goodbye my Lover_… oh please! The man's a pussy!'

She is suddenly struck by the simple domesticity of this moment, by her gratefulness to have his company, by his surprisingly kind eyes.

She smiles, scoots forward on the sofa and drops off the edge, sinking to her knees beside him.

'Where are the LPs?' he asks, having become engaged in his sorting activity again.

'I believe they were discontinued in the early eighties,' she says, grinning, slipping an arm though his.

'Can you say: retro? Hello! You are officially _uncool_.'

She needs to feel close to him, she needs to show him how much she wants him.

She slides one hand under his bristled jaw and guides his face to her own, demanding his attention, delivering a series of short, hard kisses to his mouth.

'But I do that _mind blowing_ thing with my tongue, remember,' she says, 'that's pretty cool, right?'

'Wait a second, I've experienced an acute bout of amnesia – I don't remember,' he unzips the fly of his jeans, 'you'll have to show me again.'

She smiles widely, kissing him full on the mouth once more – as if in gratitude for the right to perform this act. She lifts her leg over his outstretched two, planting her hands on the rug at either side of him and moving down his body.

He lifts his hips to assist her in exposing his growing erection.

She begins with a few tentative flicks of her tongue against the blushing head of his cock.

'_Oh yeah!_' he exclaims, before pausing for a deep breath.

She counts. In: two, three, four and out: two, three, four.

'I remember… you're _good_,' he pants.

She takes him into her mouth and receives a prolonged: '_mmmmmm,_' for her effort.

'You know, it's polite to tell a girl when you're going to come,' she says, sitting back, making firm strokes with her hand.

'When have I ever been _impolite_?' he asks, eyes fixed on the activity of her hand.

'Ah, the last five times I've gone down on you. It's nice to be _prepared_, that's all.'

This is true, but moreover, she would like to hear him make such an announcement, because it translates to: _I'm about to lose it, and its all your doing._

She lowers her head again and resumes the gentle flicking and swirling of her tongue, whilst maintaining the steady stroke of her hand along his shaft – eliciting an incomprehensible groan of: '_Juuggghh…'_ from him.

His breathing quickens: in and out, with no count between.

His eyelids flicker and his head tilts back.

'_Uh… I'm coming!'_ he exclaims, much to her delight.

She takes him into her mouth again, in preparation, and he comes in the back of her throat.

She smiles to herself, because although it wouldn't seem so: with her on all fours and her head in his lap – _she_ is in control.


	18. Chapter 18

**18**

'So, who's the lucky guy?'

'What?'

'Honey,' Liz says, momentarily pausing her salad tossing activity to level an accusing glare at Cameron, 'that dress says you're getting laid tonight, and it won't be by either Peter or I, so fess up. Who's the lucky guy?'

She blushes and lifts her wine glass to shield her mouth in a classic gesture of a lie.

'No one,' she says quietly, her eyes tracing the grout between the floor tiles.

'Bullshit, you're blushing furiously.'

She has always been amazed at Liz's ability to read her like a book. She _had_ chosen this dress specifically – in anticipation of a midnight encounter with House.

'Ok, its just some guy I had coffee with a few times.'

'Nope,' Liz says confidently, shaking her head, 'not _just some guy_ – _just some guy_ doesn't cause you to blush like that, you don't look like sex on legs for _just some guy_, and you don't doge questions about _just some guy_. Feta.'

'Feta?'

'Could you get the Feta cheese for me?' Liz gestures to the fridge, 'it's on the door.'

Cameron complies, moving like a zombie – her body on autopilot as her mind works overtime, inventing a story to cover her tracks.

_Ok, not just some guy, I'm actually madly in love with Zeke – the Endocrinologist._

She hands the container to Liz, attempting to avoid the woman's interrogating glare.

'You're lying,' Liz says pointedly, 'so it can only mean that you think I won't approve.'

Liz narrows her eyes, tapping the wooden spoon on the bench repeatedly in contemplation. 'That guy from work,' she says rolling her eyes to the ceiling as if searching for a cue, 'Holmes, Home, what's his name….'

Her eyes settle on Cameron again, 'House.'

Cameron inhales a deep breath, averting her eyes – confessing silently.

'_Oh my god Allison,_' Liz whispers, leaning across the bench,_ 'you're sleeping with your boss?'_

'He's not my boss,' she protests quietly, 'anymore…'

Peter enters the room at this moment, causing both women to jolt in surprise.

'…so I told her we were going to wait until after the baby is born before we decide whether we want to move,' Liz says, abruptly changing the subject.

'That's right,' Peter adds, oblivious, 'one thing at a time, huh?'

Cameron nods in agreement, smiling.

'More wine?' Peter offers.

……….

Dinner is a live demonstration of pleasant normalcy.

Liz is a normal woman.

Peter is a normal man.

The couple were married in a normal church ceremony, and have normal photographs of their wedding displayed around the normal white walls of their normal home.

The call each other normal, pet names. They use manners, and speak to each other in a normal, polite tone about normal subjects such as work, household duties and less-normal family members.

As normal – they are planning a family of their own, and baby normal number one is already well on the way.

They are practically humming as they smile in unison at Cameron across the table. Their demeanour says: _we hope for your sake, that you're as happy and normal as us one day_.

She wants to tell them to give the fuck up, because she has.

Husband number one died, and the love of her life is a forty-seven year old cripple with a walking cane, a bad attitude and a narcotics addiction.

And she wants to tell them that she doesn't fucking care what they think or, for that matter, what anyone else thinks – if he expressed interest, she would commit her entire future to him, regardless of the fact that she may never be able to decorate their home with photographs of their wedding, have lunch with his mother, or give birth to his child.

But she does care, because she won't mention him again, and nor will Liz – she will communicate her disapproval in more subtle, concealed ways.

She will recommend dates – nice normal men: 'What about Peter's cousin Jake, you know he's just been made partner at his law firm?'

When the baby is born she will insist that Cameron hold her and she will say: 'Just wait until you have your own.'

Like a spirit returning to its vessel after an outer-body experience, Cameron's mind returns to the room. Her attention is caught by the loud, excited tone of Peter's voice.

'Not only had she chosen ghastly colored wool,' he is saying, 'she had the pattern upside down, so it looks more like a…..!'

Cameron flushes with embarrassment as the shrill ring of her cell phone interrupts Peter's amusing anecdote about his mother's attempt to knit a bonnet for the baby.

'I'm really sorry,' she says, 'I have to get that, it could be…'

'Could be work, I know – go get it,' Liz responds, making a shooing gesture with her hand.

She excuses herself from the table and retrieves her blaring cell phone from her handbag on the hallstand in the foyer.

The screen displays a single letter: H

She hadn't wanted to enter his entire name – she had thought it would be too revealing. This way, it feels as if she is keeping secrets – as if they are having some sort of elicit affair. She sniggers for a moment when she thinks: _we are, really_.

It is mildly thrilling.

She watches the screen and allows the phone to ring two more times as she contemplates answering it. It is not work, so technically she should ignore it and go back to the table. He knows she is here – at Liz's dinner party, she had informed him of the importance of the occasion, so she imagines he would only call in an emergency, but then again…

She enters a nearby room – an office, and shuts the door behind her.

'Hello,' she says, feeling in the dark for a light switch.

She flicks the switch, and the light reveals green plaid wallpaper. She cringes and quickly throws the room back into darkness.

'Cameron…'

He sounds serious – concerned.

'I _need_ you to come to the police station on Main Street…'

'House, wha…'

'_Please_ Cameron.'

There is a moment's pause.

'Ok,' she says reassuringly and she hears the click and the dial tone as he hangs up.

_Is he in trouble, arrested, bail? Worse – was he the victim, is he giving a statement?_

She returns to the dining room, phone in hand, trembling.

'I have to go…' she says quietly.

'Oh honey, are you ok, you look as if you've seen a ghost.'

'Oh no,' she says, forcing a smile, 'I'm fine, I'm just so disappointed to have to leave…'

'It's fine, we got through the main meal at least,' Liz responds, 'you have to go, we understand.'

With farewell kisses, hugs, well wishes and a complementary bottle of wine, she leaves.

………

In her haste to see him, and to learn what has taken place, not a moment after she has the car in park, she snatches the keys from the ignition, throws the door open and launches herself into the humid, black night.

As she hurries towards the building, she catches a glimpse of her dress and her wicked stilettos with their sharp eight inch heel, and she imagines the stumbling drunks, gangsters and fat cops leering, hustling and commenting.

After a moment of internal debate, she retraces her steps to the car in search of something to cover her bare arms and cleavage.

She finds a denim jacket on the backseat.

She moves more quickly on her second trek across the car park – as if making up for lost time. When she reaches the exact position where she had made her u-turn (she remembers the numberplate of the navy SUV), a loud whistle pierces the air and plays up her spine like vibrations up the tines of a musician's tuning fork.

After a brief moment, frozen in terror, she hurries, skipping to the steps, vaguely noting to herself that the whistle was not a catcall, but rather resembled an attempt to communicate – as if someone were calling to their dog in the park.

Regardless, it frightened her. She imagines a filthy big man advancing on her, and so she quickens her steps as she climbs the stairs.

'Cameron!'

She stops.

She turns, scanning the carpark for him.

Another shrill whistle helps her to locate him, leaning on his bike, under the dark canopy of a tree.

_Here girl…_

Grasping the railing to steady herself, she descends the steps.

She approaches him, the smell of rain-soaked bitumen in her nostrils, her shoes slipping on the loose, wet surface.

'You're out?' she says curiously.

He grins. 'I was never in.'

Heavy droplets of water, almost forgotten after the last downpour, fall sporadically from the tree's foliage – as if someone, in a state of melancholy, is crying on them from above.

'What happened, are you ok?' she inquires.

One of the droplets settles on her fan of eyelashes, causing her to blink involuntarily.

'Fine,' he responds.

He looks her over with wide eyes. 'Yowza!'

She sighs and pulls her jacket close.

'Hot little black dress, hooker heels. Are you _sure_ you were at a stuffy dinner party?' he teases, 'you're not playing around behind my back are you?'

She disregards the satisfaction she feels at his jealous jab disguised as a joke.

'Would you like to tell me what's going on?' she demands.

'I was just waiting for you.'

'_Just_ waiting for me… wha… House…?'

He watches her, silently, displaying a familiar expression – an expression she had seen often, as he waited patiently for her to catch up to him during a differential diagnosis.

He is waiting for the lightbulb to switch on.

She thinks.

'You're not in any sort of trouble are you?' she says.

He tells her 'no,' with a shake of his head.

'You just called me to see if I would come – if I would drop everything and come running to you – it was a test.'

He nods.

'Don't worry – you passed, with flying colors,' he says, 'you didn't even insist on questioning me over the phone, you didn't need a _reason_, you just got here. Although I was going to deduct marks for the retrieval of the jacket – I could have been out the back, having the shit kicked out of me by corrupt cops for all you knew. You wasted valuable seconds.'

She thinks back to the phone call – the desperation in his voice, his word choice: '_I need you… please…' _

All an act.

She bites her lip, stares at her shoes, shakes her head.

'Awww, it's ok, I know you wuv me this much,' he says in childish voice, stretching his arms wide.

Without a word, she turns from him.

She blinks hard, forcing tears back as she strides across the bitumen.

'Hey,' he calls after her.

She walks faster, confident she can out-stride him, even though they are both disadvantaged – him with his cane and her in her heels.

'Cameron!'

He follows her to her car.

'Fuck off House!' she barks, her voice quavering.

She fiddles with her keys – searching for the remote entry device, but the ordinarily cumbersome black plastic square is suddenly so difficult to find.

He seizes her, spinning her slight frame, pressing her against the car.

'Don't be stupid,' he says, 'I'm sorry. Come back to my place.'

'Let go,' she commands, 'or I will scream so loudly that a dozen cops will come bursting through that door and _you_ will spend the night in a cell.'

He loosens his grip on her wrists. She ducks into her car and forbids herself to look at him in the rear vision mirror as she leaves him standing there – a pathetic sight, with only his cane for company.

………

She cries because it is not perfect – what they have is not normal.

Though she believes her cynicism is alive and well – and she doesn't expect _anything_ to be perfect, things are always so much _easier_ when at least approaching perfect.

And this is what upsets her – he has to be so _difficult_. She doesn't want to be angry with him, and she tries her hardest not to be, but he makes it so difficult – he is just so _goddamn difficult_.

He calls her.

He calls her cell, he calls her home phone, he calls her cell again.

She doesn't answer, but she keeps her cell phone in her hand so she can feel it vibrate – feel his attempts at reaching her.

She wants to answer just to hear what he will say, just to hear his voice. She wants him to leave a voice message – but he won't.

He sends a text message. One word.

_Answer._

She is struck by this – it is more intimate than the momentous sound of the phone, more him – demanding, but still, she ignores it.

Now the calls are timed – the come exactly every ten minutes.

She admires his dedication, but equally, she admires her own resistance.

She knows she is only able to resist because she hasn't spoken to him, she hasn't seen him.

She knows that if he were to arrive on her doorstep – resistance would be futile.

She seats herself in the corner of the sofa, closest to the door and waits for him to let himself in.

While she waits, she contemplates his motivations: _so it was a test, but what was it all about? Is he testing my durability, my dedication, my patience, my love? Is he testing my suitability as a long term investment? _

For a brief moment, she finds herself flattered – thankful even, that his actions may demonstrate his attempt at gauging the seriousness of their relationship, and she worries that she may have over-reacted, and spoiled everything.

Hours pass – and she has exhaustively analysed the event, considering every possible nuance, every explanation.

The calls continue into the night, and she has to force herself to disconnect the phone, and turn off her cell.

She visits the little treasure chest of the mirrored medicine cabinet above her sink.

Self medication.

_All doctors do it_, she tells herself.

It's too tempting not to dip into the supply of pills and potions, to smuggle them home, to have your own personal stockpile – especially when you are in possession of the knowledge of how and what each can be used for.

She reaches past the syringe and vial of morphine (just in case of a repeat of the killer migraine that left her blinded and bed ridden for days) for the bottle of Diazepam.

She has told herself she will not be able sleep without it – not with the knowledge that she will be required to continue to ignore him.

One would do the job. She takes two.

Her artificial sleep is tainted with images of him entering the room, undressing and slipping beneath her bedcovers.


	19. Chapter 19

**19**

She sits with her legs crossed, perched on the edge of the stylish brown suede sofa in the emergency ward's communal tea-room. It's the kind of sofa that makes her want to kick her shoes off and slouch deep into the inviting folds of one of its corners – but she is too polite and uncomfortable in her place of work to do such a thing.

'_Unclench,'_ he would say.

He has no trouble kicking back at work – any cushioned surface needs to be tried and tested and most are approved for cat napping.

She thinks he is much like a cat – when in need of affection; he approaches, requests a good thorough petting, and leaves when he is satisfied. Much like her cat Gia, he also relies on her for a feed.

She once heard a joke that a cat is a dog with Asperger's syndrome.

She has always preferred cats.

Dr Phil is currently informing a deluded couple that: _'ninety-eight percent of relationships built on infidelity, end with infidelity.'_

His Muppet-like face: beady black eyes, shiny bald head and seventies porn-star moustache, fills the extensive flat screen television.

'_You need to consider the impact this is having on your family…'_ he continues in his heavy Texan accent.

She hears the door swing open, and the approaching _step-thud, step-thud, step-thud_ sound of a lopsided stride.

A shadow falls over her and Dr Phil's face is replaced with the face of a more attractive, yet even more irritating doctor.

He sits on the coffee table directly in front of her – anchors her in place with his glitteringly sharp blue eyes and hands her a polystyrene cup.

She accepts his offering – lifting the plastic lid.

_Cappuccino, good, but has he remembered the…?_

Using the vapour and feel of the cup in her hand as indicators, she can tell that the liquid has cooled to an acceptable temperature, so she takes a sip.

…_low fat milk. Perfect. Maybe he is more considerate than I…_

'I need a favor,' he says.

She watches him retrieve a manila folder from under his arm.

'A consultation,' he adds.

She takes the folder from him, flips it open and peruses the notes.

'There's no time for it now,' he says, 'my place, tonight.'

She looks at him.

'Why can't we do it now, today – why can't we do it with Forman and Chase?'

'A foursome,' he says, bouncing his brow, 'I'm totally down with that, but I think we should pick another couple. Involving Forman and Chase in our gang-bang might complicate things even further, don't you think?'

Her expression tells him she is not amused.

'They shot down my theory,' he says, 'complained to Cuddy, she's stopping me from doing any tests that would prove my theory – you know, the usual.'

'So you need me for a secret consultation,' she says, doubtfully, 'how is that going to help you – if you can't do the tests, you can't…'

'I want your opinion on my theory,' he interrupts, 'if you think it's plausible, we can go to Cuddy, two against three is better than one…'

'Right,' she says, 'like I have _any_ credibility with them anymore: _here's Cameron, she agrees with me – but that may be because I gave her a screaming orgasm last night_…'

'Ah,' he responds, 'but I didn't get the chance to give you a screaming orgasm last night because you were giving me the cold shoulder.'

'Hmm, and why do you think that could have been?' she snaps.

'I'm just digging myself in deeper, aren't I?'

She nods.

'What were we talking about?'

'People think we're sleeping together.'

'Oh, people don't think we're sleeping together,' he sniggers.

She raises a brow, giving him a doubtful expression.

'People don't think we are sleeping together now, anymore so than they would have thought before,' he says, 'you just think people think we are sleeping together because we are.'

'Oh that makes _total_ sense,' she says sarcastically.

'Look – Cuddy, Forman, Chase… believe it or not, your opinion matters to them.'

'No one takes me seriously,' she says, 'they think my objectivity is impaired – and I don't blame them for thinking that.'

'Well I'll be taking you seriously,' he says, snatching the file from her and standing, 'at my place at seven.'

She doesn't respond, and this prompts him to say: 'come on Cameron – think of the dying girl…'

He waves the folder at her.

She nods once and he smiles – satisfied.

'Let yourself in,' he says, turning from her, 'I'll be late.'

………

The first thing she notices is the smell – like wood polish and leather. Even with the lights on, the main room is dim. She smiles, and is flooded with emotion – with affection for him, as she views his belongings.

His piano and other ornamental instruments, the rows and rows of books and medical journals, his record player and collection of LPs.

She had been here before, but only for a short time on each visit, and she had always been distracted by his presence. She is excited by the prospect of being able to explore his little world, unsupervised.

She is struck by its homeliness – despite the rather Spartan bachelor's pad furnishings, there are many intriguing personal belongings – ornaments and knick-knacks, antique medical instruments and purely decorative objects such as candles and paintings, rugs and throw cushions.

This pleases her – he has made an obvious effort to embellish his home, to personalise it and make it comfortable. She is happy to see that he has surrounded himself with the things he likes, because she often worries that nothing in this world can please him – and such a state of mind can only lead down the darkest road.

The apartment is surprisingly neat. It is slightly untidy – but only to the extent that one can detect the presence of a human inhabitant – it is certainly not unclean.

There are several open books discarded in random places – no doubt his quick mind became bored with each, and required stimulation elsewhere. There are more books atop the piano, along with sheet music, an ashtray and an empty glass.

She fingers the spines of his books – and each one confirms her love for him: Byron, Keats, Nietzche, Orwell, Poe, Shelley, Tolstoy – all evidence to corroborate the fact that he is an erudite, renaissance man. His extensive library covers almost every subject she could care to imagine. She even finds a copy of _'The Joy of Sex,'_ hidden behind _'The Complete Works of Lewis Carol.'_ She sniggers at first, and then as she thumbs though the pages, scanning the illustrations, she becomes flushed and skips a breath, and has to return the book to its secret niche, because she is already sufficiently aroused simply by being in his home. She briefly wonders where he keeps his _real_ pornography.

His kitchen is neat and simple – much to her surprise his cupboards contain a full set of expensive tableware – fit for entertaining guests. It saddens her to think that the plates would only ever be used one at a time – that the crockery would never be set around a table in anticipation of a social gathering, or perhaps had been, at another distant time in his life. She has a glimpse into his future – an alternative ending chapter, as such. After retirement, would he become a recluse? If his parents died, and she and Wilson were not around to make an effort – would he bother to seek human contact? Is there anyone else in the world who cares about him?

She distracts herself from her disturbing thoughts by inspecting his pantry and fridge – both of which contain only staple items. The door of his fridge however, displays an abundant selection of fast-food menus.

She giggles at the Albert Einstein fridge magnet, that reads: _'Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former,'_ before leaving the kitchen to continue her tour.

His bedroom – the door is wide open, inviting her. She expects to find bare basics, but is astounded by the grandeur of his imposing king-sized bed, with its high mattress, an opulent frame. She gasps, caressing the smooth, perfectly carved wooden balustrade of the bed end. She imagines what will take place inside the permitter of these four wooden posts. She wants nothing more than to be at his mercy – pinned against this mattress, as he defiles her.

She leaves the room, and closes the door – shutting it off for later.

She recognises his bathroom towels as having been advertised in a Sears catalog. The color is _aubergine_. His bathroom – like his kitchen is neat and practical. Sink, toilet, shower. No bath. She notices the hand rail in the shower, and the non-slip, corrugated surface of the flooring. There is a single white porcelain cup on the basin, containing a comb and a tall blue toothbrush. There is no clutter, and not a modicum of grime of scum between the tiles, or around the taps. She begins to suspect he may have a cleaner.

She shuts the door and opens the fly of her slacks – when something catches her eye. A note taped to the doorknob.

_Cameron, top right hand draw of computer desk._

She wrinkles her nose, narrows her eyes, shakes her head and reads the note again.

She asks herself what he could possibly want her to see, and why he would choose to leave the note on the back of the bathroom door.

She follows his logic – her small female bladder would require her to use the bathroom some time in the evening, and her uptight personality would mean that she would shut the door, even if she were the only person in the apartment.

He had underestimated her – he had believed her to be too well behaved to treat herself to a snoop of his rooms.

Baffled, she adjusts her clothing and returns to the main area of the apartment in search of his computer desk. Cautiously, she opens the top right hand draw – standing at an arms length, readying herself for a can-of-worms-style prank.

Nothing – no bang, no explosion, no streamers or squirting liquid.

She approaches slowly, and peers into the drawer.

Ink cartridges for a fountain pen, stapler and replacement staples, a hole punch and...

...a slender, rectangular box.

Famous.

White satin ribbon.

Robbin's egg blue.

_Tiffany_ blue.

_Surely not?_

Her trembling hand moves involuntarily to take the box.

The tiny hinges creak as the box opens – revealing its contents.

A delightfully delicate platinum and diamond bracelet.

She gasps and it jingles and glitters as she lifts it from the box. She cannot help herself – against her better judgement, she drapes the bracelet over her wrist. It is cold and exorbitant against her skin. She will not fasten the clasp – instead, she sighs, returning the dazzling manacle to its box.

………

She hears his key in the door and a moment later, his head appears in the archway to the kitchen, eyebrows raised questioningly as he views her – seated at the table.

She displays her most serious expression, places two fingers firmly on the box and slides it across the table in his direction.

'I don't expect you to buy things for me…' she says, 'ridiculously expensive things…'

He grins, removing his coat.

'I know. That's why I did it.'

'I can't accept this,' she says.

He rolls his eyes. 'oh, didn't see that one coming.'

'You can't _buy_ my forgiveness,' she states proudly.

'I don't intend to,' he says quietly, 'I bought it well before the copshop incident.'

He stares at the ground now, and she detects something in his eyes – hurt? This is obviously his misguided attempt at displaying affection.

'Seriously,' she says, almost sympathetically, 'it's too much.'

Before she knows it, he is back in top form.

'Is this conversation scripted?' he cracks, 'it's so clichéd. Are we going to keep going – because I really don't see the point. You're going to continue to insist that I take it back, and I'm going to continue to insist that you keep it. Eventually you will accept it – no woman can resist _Tiffany's_ – or so Wilson tells me. So, how bout you let me off the hook – show your appreciation by skipping to the part where we end up naked and sweaty, fucking in my bed.'

She scoffs and folds her arms in front of herself defensively.

He manages to make an ass of himself even when attempting to be romantic.

But she forgives him, because moments later they _are_ fucking in his bed, and it is _delicious_.

The lights are dimmed, their performance highlighted only by the light deflected from the streetlamp. She bounces slowly in his lap, her back against his chest – he is _so hard_ inside her and he rubs her clit with the fingers of one hand – the fingers of his other hand gently curling around her throat, feeling her pulse and the vibrations of her moans.

As she moves, she catches sight of the bracelet, glinting from its position on her wrist, where he had fastened it in place, moments before he had stripped her naked.

'_Come for me,'_ he whispers in a low rasp, his fingers working faster.

'Agh!'

At his request, she throws her head back and cries out, contracting around him – tight and hot and wet.

She feels him coming now too, his rhythm stalls and he tightens his grip on her throat.

………

He slips an arm around her, pulling her body to fit against the curve of his. He kisses her bare shoulder and caresses her slender arm with the back of his hand.

She turns in his arms and he immediately catches her mouth in a kiss.

She expects that this may lead to another sex act, but he continues with his lovely soft kisses, eventually placing a single wet peck on her forehead and gazing at her.

She thinks she has found the perfect opportunity to reason with him.

She touches his chin.

'So much for the consult,' she says.

He looks over her shoulder, averting his eyes guiltily.

'There is no dying girl, is there?'

He shakes his head.

'Whose file was it?'

'An old case – discharged, I fished it out of the filling cabinet.'

She furrows her brow in dissapointment.

'If it makes you feel any better, the girl lived...' he offers.

'You have to stop lying to me,' she says.

She feels the muscles of his jaw clench under her fingertips.

'I'd like to tell you I won't, but the laws of operant conditioning say I will do it again.'

She narrows her eyes.

'Lying gets me what I want, it's rewarding…' he says.

'I know the laws of operant conditioning,' she interrupts, 'but you'd find it just as rewarding – if not more so, if you _didn't_ lie to me. For instance: _Cameron, I'm really sorry that I lied to you – come to my place tonight, I want to make it up to you_, would have been preferable to concoting _another_ exaborate lie!'

He sits up.

'I think you wanted to spoil this,' he says.

'What?'

'We were having a _moment,_ and you wanted to spoil it.'

'I didn't want to…'

'Well you did.'

He pulls his boxer shorts on and leaves the room, sulking like a child, puzzling her.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N**

Once again, I owe thanks to my lovely Beta Houseketeer – because her 'track changes' comments are **_far_** more enjoyable to read than my supervisors,' and because she provides me with such fabulous golden nuggets of inspiration – the sodium idea was all hers – she's B.R.I.L.L.I.A.N.T!!

I also want to thank Tidwell for her words of encouragement and for setting such a high standard of fanfic writing. If you haven't checked out her fic: _'Home,'_ go and do so _immediately_.

And of course, thanks to everyone who is regularly reading and reviewing – I'm sorry my updates can't be a little more regular…

_One_ more thing… congratulations to Hugh Laurie on his golden globe win! (he deserves _another_ one just for that speech).

* * *

**20**

'_Soooooooo_,' he burbles, 'how was work?'

'What?'

'How was work?'

'You don't care how my day at work was,' she says.

'Nope,' he admits.

'How's your friend – the pregnant one?'

'You don't care about her either.'

'Nope,' he repeats.

'Then why do you keep asking?'

'Small talk goes with the décor,' he replies, sending his eyes about the room.

She follows his gaze. Rows and rows of tables adorned with crisp white linen, vases of fresh cut flowers, and gleaming crockery. Waitstaff meandering in their smart black uniforms and aprons and the pianist, idly playing: _One for my Baby._

'This was your idea,' she says.

'Yeah I know,' he mumbles, shifting in his chair.

'Then if you're so uncomfortable with it, why did you suggest it?'

'It's just what they do,' he replies.

'They?' she inquires.

He shrugs.

'Kids these days,' he responds, gesturing to the couples seated around them.

'Right…' she says, eyeing him as he attempts to assemble a pyramid with his cutlery, 'well I thought it was a bad idea from the very beginning.'

'You did?'

'Yes – the last time we got all dressed up and met in a restaurant, it was a disaster.'

He nods slowly in agreement.

'A crash and burn disaster,' she adds.

'_Alright,'_ he says defensively.

Using her straw, she swills the ice around the glass of her long island ice tea.

His silverware construction topples and he glances up from the rubble to catch her eye.

'Wanna go back to your place and screw?' he asks, levelling a serious stare at her.

'House!' she exclaims, before sniggering and containing her giggle, pressing two fingers to her lips.

His gaze is unrelenting, he is awaiting a response.

'I'll get the bill,' she says finally.

………

'_Good?_' he asks, his voice hoarse in her ear.

She can only manage to answer with a sigh, as he holds her against the door – her underpants around her ankles, his two longest fingers working quickly, slipping in and out of her silken entrance.

'Is that good?' he says more clearly because, she suspects, he wants to hear her sing his praise.

'_Y-e-e-s-s,'_ she pants, the intensity of her pleasure prolonging her response.

Her keys fall from her limp hand, making a clattering sound as they come into contact with the hard wood surface, but she manages to keep hold of her handbag, clutching it in her other hand – a tight fist, her arm draped around his shoulders.

His lips find hers. He kisses her quickly, messily.

In the darkness, she gropes his body – hand moving lower and lower. She kneads his hard cock through the material of his slacks, causing him to break the kiss with a loud groan, leaving her throbbing lips wet and tingling from the abrasion of his whiskers.

She works his belt open and sends her hand down behind his briefs. She teases him with a few quick, precise strokes and in response, he turns her body, forcing her over the side table – knocking photo frames and the first of a stack of magazines to the floor. The fall of the first magazine activates a domino effect and the others follow, sliding over the glossy surfaces of one another and toppling to the ground. He tugs her skirt up, and she hears rustling fabric as he frees himself completely from his slacks – preparing to fuck her.

'Condom,' she instructs, reaching behind, pressing her purse into his hand.

She hears the rustle of the packaging being torn open.

He says, 'ready?' but he doesn't wait for her response before he enters her.

He groans: _'Ohgod,'_ his voice strained, as he grasps her hips and pulls her body back to meet his initial, slow thrusts.

His fingers are still wet from his earlier activities, and so they slip over her skin as he attempts to gain a firm grip on her.

She supplements his blasphemy with a throaty exclamation of: _'God!'_ as he swivels his hips, building an irresistible rhythm.

She dips her own finger between her thighs and dares to touch herself, triggering a torturous throb, and then the initial contractions of her orgasm. She is silent, though she knows he _feels_ her orgasm because he groans again, thrusting hard and fast, pushing the weight of his entire body against her. Her body is lifted – she is raised on the tips of her toes with the force of his movements.

He comes within seconds of her, moaning something incoherently in release.

………

She collects her underwear, flicks a switch – throwing light over the room for the first time since their arrival in the apartment, and bends to restack the magazines on the side table.

He watches her from the sofa – slumped in a corner, knees wide apart, fly still open, eyelids heavy, a contented smile creeping across his face.

'Come here,' he says.

After a final adjustment to the angle of the photo-frames, she joins him on the sofa, perched beside him. To her surprise, he throws an arm around her, pulling her close, gently lowering her head to his chest.

She waits for him to make another move, but he is still. After a moment, he begins to play with her hair, his fingers weaving leisurely through dark strands, fingertips applying soothing pressure to her scalp.

She allows her eyes to slip closed.

'I'm going to slander your name,' she says, 'I'm going to post a note up on the corkboard in the clinic that says: _Greg House likes to cuddle after sex._'

'Right,' he snorts, 'well I'm going to spray paint: _Allison Cameron skips dessert for a fuck inside the front door,_ across the sign at the entrance to the hospital'

'Yours is crass,' she says.

'All good graffiti is.'

He reaches for the remote, gracing them with the warm purple glow of the television.

'Saturday Night Live is on,' he says, the tone of his voice presenting this comment as an offer.

'I think I'll go to bed,' she says, prying herself away.

'Oh!' he exclaims, siting upright, a comical expression breaking across his face.

'Ding ding! Round two!'

She chuckles as she saunters barefoot down the hallway, underpants still in hand.

………

The first time, she awakens to a low rumbling and the nagging pain of an empty stomach.

She is used to this sensation. Used to quelling it with an apple or a glass of warm water.

He had teased her for her choice of meal: Caesar salad (minus the dressing and cheese) and Atlantic salmon.

Even still, she had merely cleaned off the pathetic serving of salad (_'only passable as a garnish,'_ he had commented) and tested the filet of fish – telling herself it had upset her stomach, that it was too rich.

It had been marinated in butter.

His solution to her apparent rocky relationship with food is simple: eat.

Just. Eat.

Though she is sure he knows that the matter is far more complicated – involving deep seated psychological issues unsolvable by simply chewing and swallowing – he is House.

His view is pragmatic.

She imagines that he had inherited this trait from his father.

_Well, it's not nice when you're the target, but yet you do onto others…_

_The tormented becomes the tormentor._

His relationship with this man – his creator, is a source of boundless curiosity for her – but it is yet another closed door – locked from the inside, and he has thrown away the key.

She switches the light in the kitchen and as her eyes adjust to the sudden illumination, everything seems foreign for the briefest moment – quiet and still and surreal. The hum of the fridge, the buzz of the clock on the electric oven and the drone of the florescent bulb reveal themselves one by one in her awareness.

She pads across the floor to the pantry – pulls the double doors open and shifts aside boxes and jars and cans in search of her treasure.

She is disappointed to find only the plaster back of the pantry.

_I'm sure I had some…_

She ducks to check the lower shelf and her eyes widen, while her arm snakes out and her greedy fingers wind around her prize.

Mac and cheese – the microwavable type; the delicious, buttery, milky, creamy, calorific type.

For a moment, she is hesitant.

She is struck by images of them naked – in bed.

She considers the way he inspects her, every inch of her, with those eyes.

She thinks about what they do, all the jiggling and rolling and bouncing, she thinks he is sure to see the cellulite, to notice the dimples and wobbly bits…

But her demanding stomach, currently devouring itself with its own acids in desperation, wins over her mind and she rips the paper satchel open with her teeth and dumps the pasta and dry powder mix into a bowl – comforted by the clinking sound of the hard spirals against the glass.

The microwave beeps, calling her to collect her feast.

She huddles over the bowl and the steam rises – curling into her nostrils, beckoning her.

She raises her fork – glinting in the light like a surgeon's knife – before plunging it into the glorious golden mush.

The first mouthful is accepted well – enjoyed slowly, a series of little explosions across her tongue like an orgasm of the tastebuds.

She thinks of him.

_I love him_

With each mouthful she thinks a new – forbidden thought.

_I want him to tell me that it's more than sex_

Such thoughts are banned from her ordinary stream of consciousness, but this is a moment of weakness – a binge.

_I want him to tell me that he loves me_

The scoops become more frequent.

_I want to be the 'girlfriend,'_

Faster

_I want him to hold my hand, I want him to touch me in public_

She barely chews – only swallows.

_I want to chat with his mother in the kitchen over coffee_

Scoop

_He cares about me, he worries about me, he wants to spend time with me_

Scoop

_He wants me_

Scoop

_He needs me_

Scoop

_He loves me_

Done.

All finished.

She feels sated.

She feels guilty.

She returns to the bedroom and tucks herself in beside him – and for a moment, at the sight of his face, his peaceful expression – her guilt subsides.

………

The second time, she awakens to a sharp jab in the back and an even sharper cry of pain.

She feels blindly for the bedside lamp, her urgent search hurried by the contorted cries and moans originating from beside her.

With the light on, she turns to him, throwing the covers back. He lies on his side, clutching his knee to his chest, rolling slowly in his place. His eyelids are clamped shut, salty tears seeping from their seams.

'Wha… what's wrong?!' she asks, horrified.

'_Whadaya mean… what's wrong?'_ he manages to pant breathlessly, _'it's my damn leg!'_

'Oh,' she utters timidly as she watches him, his facial features screwed in to an expression of hideous agony.

She has never seen him in so much pain. She wonders if she has ever seen _anyone_ in so much pain – despite her vocation.

'_Fuuuck!'_ he howls, continuing to rock in his place, his knuckles white as he clutches his leg.

'Why is it so bad?' she asks hesitantly, afraid to agitate him further.

'Sp…spasms,' he spits.

'Where's your Vicodin?' she asks, slipping off the bed.

'It doesn't fucking work… when it's this bad…_argh!'_

He changes position on the bed, opening his eyes momentarily as he stretches his leg in front of him, before slamming them shut again, grimacing.

'Um,' she murmurs, feeling desperately inept, 'would a heat pack help? A cold pack?'

'_No!'_

His writhing on the mattress has caused his boxers to bunch around the tops of his thighs, displaying the culprit – his nasty, deep scar.

She moves her hand slowly, until it hovers above the area, and she can almost feel the heat – the pain radiating. The image could be likened to an attempt at divine healing. His eyes blink open again, and he catches her before she is able to make contact.

'_Don't touch!'_ he barks, and she retracts her hand quickly.

He closes his eyes again, and continues to trash about, and the best thing she can think to do, is to take his hand. He rejects this also, his fingers bunch into a fist, preventing her from lacing her own with them, and his fist punches her hand away.

'Is there _anything_ I can do?' she asks, 'is there _anything_ that would help?

His chest heaves, and his breaths come harsh and heavy.

'You know what would help?' he groans.

'What?' she inquires eagerly.

'_Morphine,'_ he whispers.

She sits upright – straightening her spine.

_Medicine cabinet,_ she thinks, _of course he searched the medicine cabinet._

'House…' she starts.

He releases his fingers from the ball of his fist and clutches her hand now, squeezing hard.

'It's _really_ bad,' he pleads with her.

'Ok,' she says.

In this moment, she realises his immense power.

She realises that he could influence her every judgment and decision.

………

He watches as she prepares the area, swabbing his skin gently before filling the canister of the syringe with the liquid from the vial.

He sighs in relief as she pierces his skin.

After a few moments he is still and quiet, his hair damp and matted, slicked to his forehead with perspiration.

He watches her through heavy, blinking eyelashes.

'_Oh,'_ he breathes softly, almost inaudibly, _'marry me…'_

She smiles sadly, considering the artificiality of this proposal.

'You're enjoying this aren't you?' he teases as she strokes his hair affectionately, smoothing it back off his brow.

'I most certainly am not,' she contends, 'how could I possibly enjoy having my….'

He smirks as she searches for an innocuous description.

'…_sleeping partner,_ wake me by shoving me in the back, and wailing in pain.'

'Sorry,' he says.

'Why?'

'Sorry you had to see it.'

'Oh no,' she says quickly, 'no, I didn't mean it that way…'

He sniggers and at her keen effort to avoid affronting him.

She watches as his eyelids drag shut and he slips peacefully back to sleep.

………

Liz had made an unexpected early Sunday morning visit, and Cameron had hesitantly granted her entrance, hoping that her visit would be short, and that House would sleep soundly through the duration – with the residue of Morphine still floating along in his bloodstream.

No such luck.

She assumes their voices must have woken him. He emerges from the bedroom wearing his slacks, white dress shirt and patent leather shoes. His jacket and tie have been draped over his left arm and his right arm dedicates his weight to his cane.

On her way to the sofa, teacup in hand, Liz catches sight of Cameron's hideaway.

Cameron cringes, anticipating the impending interaction.

Caught in Liz's headlights, she expects House to retaliate with derision.

He proves her right.

'Whoa!' he exclaims, exaggerating his expression – wide eyes and mouth.

Liz pauses, as if she is the target of a police raid.

'Sorry,' he says, without the slightest hint of sincerity, 'but you're just _huuuuge!_'

Cameron sighs, clamping her hands on her hips.

'Liz,' she says, exasperated, 'meet Greg House.'

'Hi,' Liz offers hesitantly.

'Hi,' he snaps in return.

All three regard one another in awkward silence.

House raises a hand, and Liz presents hers in response – obviously expecting a greeting hand shake, but House's fingers assume the shape of a pistol.

'Thirty-eight weeks,' he says, pointing at her distended belly.

She drops her arm by her side and nods slowly.

'What did you have for breakfast?' he inquires, 'bacon and egg McMuffin?'

She stares, bewildered for a moment, before she nods again, and her mouth drops open.

'Two?' he says, before adding, 'three?' after regarding her guilty expression.

She nods once more – blushing.

He lowers his hand, pointing at her feet.

'Your feet hurt?' he asks.

She bobs her head again in affirmation.

'Edema,' he says, 'you need to lay off the sodium.'

'But…' she starts, 'my naturopath told me that pregnant woman need _more_ sodium.'

'Not much more than can be obtained through a regular, balanced diet,' House replies, 'I'm sure he didn't say anything about _pillaging_ McDonald's.'

Liz appears horrified.

'Look, it's no big deal,' he says, 'but if you want to reduce the swelling and get a bit of relief, lay off the junk food and drink more water.'

Liz glances at Cameron.

'Oh,' House adds, 'and get that ass on the couch – feet up.'

Cameron shakes her head.

'Well, I'd love to stay and talk haemorrhoids and stretch marks,' he says, 'but I've got… _stuff_ to do.'

He lunges for the door, confirming his departure with a perfunctory slam.

'That's him?' Liz says after a moment of recovery, '_that's_ House?'

'Yep.'

'Ha!' Liz declares, 'I saw him as more of a George Clooney type, the irresistibly handsome doctor. Or perhaps more ruggedly handsome - a Russel Crowe type.'

Cameron stares at the ground, mentally pulling threads from the rug.

'Well, I guess he's _kinda_ handsome…' Liz offers in an attempt to redeem herself, 'if you like older guys…'

Cameron raises her head to look at her friend.

'How old _is_ he?'

'Forty-seven,' Cameron admits quietly.

'_Forty se…!_' Liz begins to exclaim, before quickly adding: 'sorry.'

Cameron's eyes return to the carpet.

'Oh you know, each to their own and all that,' Liz continues.

'I don't expect you to like him,' Cameron says, 'in fact I expect for you to _dislike_ him. Everyone does.'

'Ah, but _you_ like him…'

She nods.

'Do you love him?'

Cameron's expression causes Liz to say: 'forget I asked.'

With a certain degree of difficulty, Liz lowers herself onto the sofa, rotating her teacup in her hand and levitating her feet, upon House's recommendation.

'Does he… are you guys living together?' Liz enquires.

'No!' Cameron responds quickly, 'no... he just stays here sometimes.'

_Sometimes._

_Often._

_Almost every night._

_We may as well be living together…_

'Is the sex good?'

'Liz!' Cameron replies, feeling her cheeks flush.

'Oh come on,' Liz implores, 'we always talk about sex – I told you that Peter was a dud, and I had to give him a couple of tutorial sessions.'

'House is _not_ a dud,' Cameron concedes, 'and he certainly doesn't require tutelage.'

'Aha!' Liz exclaims, as if to say: _now I see it._

'Want a refill?' Cameron asks, siting beside Liz, lifting the teapot, attempting to change the subject.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N**

- As always, thanks to my wonderful beta, Houseketeer for her patience and genius.

- Thanks to snowrabbitses for her lovely comments and encouragement.

- I don't know much about poker – so the tips are from Anthony Holden and Doyle Bunson

* * *

**21**

She watches him toe off his _Nike Court Force Low Premium_ sneakers (he had carefully articulated the name for her, and requested that she repeat it back to him until he was entirely satisfied that she had it right) and bounce back on her bed, stretching his arms behind his head and ah-ing contently.

She observes the shoes – abandoned on her carpet, tipped on their sides, the loosened laces streaming from the eyelets. She had referred to them as _brown_, but he had corrected her – telling her they were "cappuccino, with bison and sport red accents."

She had laughed, calling him a meterosexual, and had made a mental note to visit the _Nike_ online store for his birthday.

"Comfortable?" she inquires sarcastically.

"Almost," he says, "but I could do with a cold beverage of some description…"

"You know where the kitchen is," she scoffs.

"I do," he responds, "but there's a reason I display a card with the image of a stick figure guy in wheelchair on my bike, and it ain't to enhance my street cred…"

She nods, thinking it's the least she could do for him, really, and turns to pass through the doorway.

"I like limeade best!" he calls after her, "with ice!"

She returns to find him punching pillows behind his back, building himself a cushiony wall of support. She waits for him to cease this activity, before extending her arm, presenting him with a tall, frosted glass: a green drink – ice jingling merrily.

He takes it from her with a quiet: "thanks."

"You'd better not get too settled," she says, moving to the foot of the bed and shedding her stale work clothing piece by piece, "I'm going out."

"Where?"

"Just to a local bar, for drinks."

"Drinks, who with?" he inquires, and she thinks she detects a hint of possessiveness in his tone.

"Some girlfriends."

"Aha," he remarks, turning his attention to his feet.

She watches as he attempts to snag her discarded magenta lace thong with the curled toes of his sock covered left foot.

"I always imagined what you were wearing under those sensible slacks and skirts," he says, "of course I fantasised it was something naughty, but _fuck me_, I never actually believed you would wear panties _this_ hot every day at work!"

She giggles, pulling a pink, cotton voile dress over her head to cover her fresh, newly selected underwear.

"No seriously," he says, suddenly placing his glass on the side table, crawling to the end of the bed, and reaching out to take her arms, "fuck me, just once before you go."

"I really can't, I've got to…"

He pulls her onto the bed and kisses her quiet with his ice-cold lips and lime flavoured tongue.

"Stay here with me…" he says, laying her across the mattress beneath him.

With a hand fitted under the crease of each knee, he draws her legs up. A back handed flick sends the soft material of her skirt fluttering down her pale thighs to collect around her waist.

"…you know I'm much more fun," he continues temptingly, kissing one of her embarrassingly adolescent, soccer-girl's knees, "I'll go down on you, none of your girlfriends will do you that favour…" he raises his head to look at her, "…and if they do – I want in."

His greedy fingers hook into the band of her underpants and he tugs gently.

"…no don't_…" _she protests feebly.

_Do whatever you want to me…_

She raises her hips for him and the flimsy scrap of material is easily removed.

"You know what I'm going to do," he says, flattening his tongue on her kneecap for effect, "and so you're _not_ going to resist."

His thumb wipes away the salvia print of his tongue, soaking it into her skin.

She reaches down, taking a fistful of his shirt and urging him closer.

"You are…" she stalls.

"What?" he prompts her, nudging her nose with his.

_Impossible. _

_Beautiful. _

_Impossibly beautiful._

"…persuasive…"

"Mm hmm," he hums.

"…and totally right, I'm not going to resist, but after this, I have to go, mmm-kay?"

"Right…"

"More kissing," she requests.

His body rests against hers. Embedding his elbows in the thick down of the feather doona, and framing her face with his hands, he settles in for the kinds of long, deep kisses that shock her system and produce a sort of inertia.

Looking down at her, he smiles before the first kiss, and she feels doused in some sort of invisible chemical, burning and tingling her from the inside out – but only pleasantly so.

She thinks he may actually be making _love_ to her.

Out of the blue, she asks: "why December?" between the intermittent press and purse of their lips.

"December?"

"Why did we first sleep together in December?"

He furrows his brow.

"Why not January last year? Why not February, March, April, May… why did it take us so long?"

"Why does it matter?"

She sighs.

"It doesn't, I suppose."

"Do you want me to…?"

He gestures between her thighs.

She makes note that he knows to ask permission, because he has learnt that on occasion, she is too sensitive and cannot bear to be touched.

She has only ever found this to occur with him.

She nods and he bows his head. She feels his breath and then his tongue – warm again, lapping her clit – flicking softly and then building to a more steady, firm pressure. She has to be careful not to hurt him as she writhes on the bed and her thighs clamp around his ears.

He pauses and in a moment of recovery, she takes the opportunity to speak again.

"I just feel like we've wasted time," she says, "and I don't want to waste any more."

He looks at her, and his fearful expression says he thinks she may be contemplating the M word.

"What I mean is – I like spending time with you," she clarifies.

He nods. "Isn't that what we're doing now?" he says, "spending time?"

It is her turn to nod. "I'm glad you had the keys cut," she says, "I like having you sleep in my bed, and I like sleeping in yours."

"You know why I love _doing it_ at your place?" he says, emphasising the words: '_doing it_,' like an oversexed frat boy – obviously desperate to stop the conversation from slipping into the quicksand pit of 'deep and meaningful.'

"Because you don't have to change the sheets?" she cracks, humouring him.

He points to the full length mirror beside her bed.

He props himself up, before moving to sit on the edge of the bed, facing the mirror.

"Come here," he says, holding a hand out to her.

She accepts his hand, and he arranges her to sit between his open legs, facing the mirror also. She regards their reflection. She has never taken notice of this mirror – never seen them together like this. She wants to capture the image – a snapshot, a photograph – and keep it as evidence.

"Watch," he says, as he parts her legs and lifts her skirt.

His hand slips down between her parted thighs and she watches as his fingers work – studies his technique.

She moans helplessly and melts into him, leaning back and inadvertently giving him access to slip his fingers inside her.

She sees his hand disappear behind her back. She hears the chink of his belt buckle, the sharp sound of his zip, the rustle of a condom wrapper and she watches his elbow jerk beside her as he fiddles for a moment.

"Stand," he says.

And when she does, her absence from his lap reveals his exposed cock, standing straight and hard in the reflection of the mirror.

He pulls her back, carefully guiding her to sit down on his erection.

She is wet and ready for him.

His hands clamp her waist and he urges her to move – rising up and sitting back down on him repeatedly.

"_Good,"_ he moans, "keep doing that…"

His hand pulls a strap from her shoulder and slips under her bra cup to free her breast.

"_Are you watching?"_ he pants.

His free hand returns between her thighs and he continues to finger her clit.

"_Yes…"_

She comes at this, gasping and watching her reflection shudder and tremble – watching him watching her – his smug expression. Overwhelmed, she slumps forward, and his arm snakes around her waist, supporting her limp, exhausted body.

"Stay here with me," he whispers, pressing his lips to hear ear, "you don't have to drink with them, you can drink with me."

She finds her head nodding before her mind has even considered this.

………

"Figures you'd suck at poker," he says collecting his chips with a sweep of his broad hand.

"Oh – and why is that?" she contends.

"Because it's a game of cunning, you have to be deceitful, ruthless…. and you're too nice to bluff – it's not in your nature."

"Hmm, I have my moments…' she responds, pouring herself another drink.

"Whoa," he says, raising a brow, eyeing the volume of alcohol in her glass as she adds the soda, "is that a vodka tonic, or a vodka _vodka_ tonic?"

"It's a vodka tonic," she replies with a tight lipped grin.

She eyes his glass – empty, nothing but ice slowly melting, gliding around in the dregs of the apparently substandard scotch she had bought especially for his visits.

She thinks of offering him another drink, but she is too embarrassed to draw attention back to the fact that in his opinion: she doesn't know fine quality Scotch Whiskey.

"Deal again," she gestures to the cards by his right elbow, "I'll show you I can be cunning."

"As you wish," he says, retrieving the cards and cutting the stack before shuffling them neatly into his hand, "just promise you won't cry like a girly girl when I kick your ass again."

"We'll see…"

He waggles his brow at her farcically.

"Ok, lemme give you a tip _sssh_ugar," he says in what sounds to be his best Sean Connery-as-James Bond accent.

His pronunciation is heavy on the _'s'_ sounds, which is highly amusing given his slight lisp. She snorts with laughter, shielding her mouth with her hand, so as not to spray her drink over his face.

"Poker is like a horse," he says, and she quietens herself, leaning in to hear one of his famous metaphors, "it has five letters and two vowels."

She thinks for a second before emitting a slow: "aha-ha!" which quickly develops into a loud guffaw.

"Great _'tip,'_" she sniggers.

"Alright," he says, dealing them each five cards, "you want a _real_ tip?"

She nods.

"The good news is that in every deck of fifty-two cards there are: two million, five hundred and ninety-eight thousand, nine hundred and sixty possible hands. The bad news is that you are only going to be dealt _one_ of them. You need to decide how good your hand is at a given moment. Nothing else matters."

"Right," she says, squeezing his knee, before shifting around the table and occupying in the empty chair beside him.

"The idea is for opponents to sit on _opposite_ sides of the table," he says, eyeing her as she makes her advance.

"You're gorgeous," she says, reaching up to stroke his cheek – the pad of her thumb moving against the grain of his whiskers.

"And you're just trying to get a look at my cards," he says softly.

She aims her first kiss at his cheekbone and the second hits the very corner of his mouth – just enough so that she detects a new wetness on her lips.

"You _are_ cunning," he says, "using your looks and charm, that's your ploy – I tell you, it's working. Drape yourself over my lap and I'll be willing to give you _anything_, let alone a peek at my hand."

She looks at him – there is a softness about his eyes. She ponders the significance of this statement.

_I'll be willing to give you anything…_

The ring of the telephone interrupts her analysis.

………

"Oh my god," she says, slowly returning the phone to its cradle and facing him.

He looks up from his card shuffling to meet her gaze, but he doesn't inquire about her exclamation of surprise.

"Oh my god!" she repeats.

"I'm assuming you're going to put me out of my misery any minute now..." he says, impassively stacking the plastic poker chips, assembling a tower.

"Liz has gone into labor," she informs him.

"Huh," he mutters, "she's not the first."

"She can't get in contact with Peter," Cameron continues, "she wants me to go with her to the hospital – Princeton General."

He nods, as if to say: _what do I care?_

"Will you drive me?" she asks.

He stares at her blankly for a moment before asking: "why?" rather harshly.

"I've been drinking," she says.

"So have I," he retorts.

"You've had _one_," she says, "I've lost count of how many I've had."

"Ah, but my _one_ drink washed down _two_ of these babies," he says, retrieving his faithful yellow plastic bottle from his pocket and rattling it at her, "you've read the label – you know what that means…"

He pops the cap and empties two pills into his hand, before lifting his palm to his mouth, swallowing them.

"That was _hours_ ago, House…" she argues.

"No sense debating it," he says, standing, "you're wasting precious time while your friend is huffing and puffing away in agony."

"No!" she contends, raising her voice, "you're the one wasting precious time with your pathetic excuses."

He moves past her saying, "call a cab – they're very efficient in this city," as he makes his way to the door.

She pauses – dumbfounded by his insensibility, and even more surprised by her surprise at this.

Impulsively, she snatches his arm, halting his escape. With the knowledge that she is about to strike back, her heart beats – pounding in her ears, and the sudden rush of adrenalin is dizzying.

"_You're a prize winning asshole"_ she snaps.

Eyeing his shoes, he nods once in sad agreement.

"I stayed with you," she says, "my friends were expecting me – I should have gone, but I stayed here with _you,_ because you asked me to."

He refuses to look at her.

She releases him, and he skulks into the hallway.

"Where are you going?!" she calls after him, mildly aware that she is shouting into the quiet hallway like a hysterical madwoman, "are you going to _drive_ home?"

At this – he quickens his pace, hobbling faster to the elevator at the end of the hall.

She turns and reaches for the phone, attempting to disregard the choking sensation in her throat, and the tingle of tears behind her eyes – telling herself that she has a more urgent matter at hand.

She calls a cab.

………

Rows and rows of tiny creatures with brand new, peeling skin – an assortment of colors ranging from pink to olive to brown.

Some of them squirm, some cry, some sleep soundly.

She watches behind the glass as nurses scurry between the isles, stopping every now and then to check and fuss.

She feels a hand on her shoulder and turns.

He has flowers – tulips.

"They're not for you," he says, turning to watch the show behind the glass, "they're for Liz."

She nods slowly.

A new father has come to meet his son. The man is tall, burly: a bouncer perhaps? A fireman, a cop, a soldier?

He cries as the nurse arranges the child in his arms.

"You want one of those," House whispers accusingly.

And it hits her.

She comprehends his reason for not wanting to accompany her to Liz's delivery.

And she agrees with him, wholeheartedly.

This is not healthy.

"Let's go," she says.

He nods, and slips an arm through hers.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N**

As always, thanks to Houseketeer (you're the loveliest beta, and friend around), and thanks so much to everyone who has been reading and leaving such encouraging comments.

There is some medical stuff in this chapter, and while I did do my research, I made some assumptions, and I am not a doctor so there are bound to be some errors.

* * *

**22**

She has only just arrived home, disposed of her keys on the side table and her satchel on the couch, and the phone rings – as if calling out to her, warning her not to unwind and switch off her mind.

She sighs and drags her feet as she approaches it, silently praying that this call is not a request to return to work (yet another drawback of working in the emergency wards, she has discovered: emergencies, by their very nature, cannot wait, and no excuse is acceptable).

She lifts the receiver, preparing herself for the worst.

"Fuck Cuddy and her fucking Draconian administration!" he shouts.

"Huh…?"

"That woman is not a _doctor_, she sits on her ass behind that ridiculous desk, barking orders … you try and talk to her about a patient's tibia, she thinks you're referring to a North African country…"

"House, slow down, what's happened?"

She cannot extract an answer from him, only a lot of swearing, huffing and heavy breathing.

"Do you want me to come over?" she asks.

"If you want," he snaps.

She knows him well enough to understand that this response translates to: 'get here _now_.'

………

She has learned something.

She has learned that when things are good – the sex is _good_: he is attentive, giving, warm and present.

But when things are bad – the sex is bad: he is selfish, forceful, cold and distant.

He just needs to get off.

Tonight, whatever quarrel he has had with Cuddy, he is taking out on her.

"Do you wear this crap for me?" he grunts, wiping her lips with the pad of his thumb, inadvertently smearing the sticky gloss over her cheek as he fucks her hard and fast, pinning her to the mattress with the weight of his body, heaving and thrusting above her, "…because I don't like it, it only ever makes a mess."

He kisses her mouth: rough and wet.

He pinches her bottom lip between his teeth.

He forces his tongue against hers.

She shifts beneath him, attempting to rotate her hips – attempting to raise them to a more comfortable position so that she may also enjoy this encounter. But the task proves too difficult. He is too heavy: he isn't making any sort of effort to keep his weight from crushing her, and in his haste and fury, he hadn't bothered to completely remove her jeans – only tugged them down far enough so that she was able to spread for him, and now they are bunched around her ankles, giving the effect that she is tethered, and further restricting her movements.

And it is too late, because he comes, shuddering and grunting with a final thrust before quickly moving off her.

………

He sits against the bedhead, his brow furrowed, his lips pouting, his jaw clenched, fiddling with the open zipper of his fly. It seems his orgasm hasn't helped to alleviate the stress.

She wriggles free of her jeans, kicking them from her feet, and pulls her underwear back in place before joining him.

Slotting a hand under the flap of his buttoned-down blue Oxford shirt, she traces the pattern of the skull on his t-shirt.

She tucks her knees under her sweater and waits a moment to see if he will talk.

He doesn't, so she takes his hand, lifting it to inspect his long, elegant fingers.

She traces his fingertips with her own – softly, barely, so that the pleasant tingling sensation is replicated in her toes.

He watches her do this and folds his fingers down through hers to clasp her hand.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she says.

He gives her an expression that says he is hesitant.

She kisses his cheek twice before pursing her lips against his, hoping to persuade him.

"You'll only side with _her_," he says vindictively.

She shrugs. "Try me."

He sighs. "I must warn you that the following spiel may contain words likely to trigger your innate ethical alarm system, such as: informed consent, class three medical devices, and FDA approval."

She nods, signalling him to continue.

"Sixty year old female, diagnosed with schizophrenia at age twenty-five. This woman has been on nearly every subtype of every class of antipsychotics known to man: atypical, typical, high potency, depot…"

She nods, comprehending the information as it comes.

"Back in the 70's she was a serious case: severe delusions and hallucinations, paranoia, catatonia, the lot," he continues, "her pattern of response to the drugs was erratic until her most recent treating psychiatrist got her on Clozapine and she _had_ been doing as well as a schizophrenic could ever expect to."

"_Had_ been?" she inquires.

"A month ago, after some gradual decline, she stopped responding to the drugs. There is no reason for this. She has shown minimal response to some drugs in the past, but now she isn't responding at all – and I mean, _at all_: she had been in a catatonic stupor for the last week, she was frozen still. She wouldn't speak, wouldn't use the bathroom, and most problematically, wouldn't eat."

"My god," Cameron says, "that's virtually unheard of these days."

"Right," he responds, "they put her in a chemically induced coma so they could feed her. We did a CT scan and found a meningioma – it's benign, but I think, that because of its location, it might be impacting on her brain's ability to process the drugs."

She nods again.

"I want to give her electroconvulsive therapy."

"House!" Cameron exclaims, "She has a meningioma, ECT is ruled out because of the danger of herniation from the increase in intracranial pressure during the procedure!"

He rolls his eyes.

"See, I knew you would say that!"

"ECT is considered a class three medical device for a reason."

"Bullshit – it has a bad name, that's all! It's only controversial because some mad scientists used it without anaesthesia, as torture back in the thirties. The tumour can be removed with surgery, and then ECT can be performed – it's perfect."

"It's far from perfect, you know there is still some risk of herniation, and it's not such a great idea to be enducing seizures in a person who has had brain surgery!"

"It's perfect for this patient. The meds don't work – so either she's awake, stays in a cationic stupor and starves to death, or she stays in a coma for the rest of her life!"

"What do the others say?"

"Forman reasons that the motor rigidity may be partially caused by the catatonia, but not completely. He suggested that her sudden lack of response to the drug was actually an _averse_ response to the drug: neuroleptic malignant syndrome. I argued that after a thirty five year span of antipsychotic drug use, NMS would have showed earlier – he argued that it showed because the psychiatrist suddenly upped the med dosage, and I argued that the sudden increase in the meds happened only _because_ she was _already_ showing no response. NMS is a weak diagnosis, and he knows it – so does Cuddy, but they are too chicken shit to try my idea, so they are hoping to god that she spikes a fever and proves them right."

"You'll never get consent for this," she says sympathetically.

"That's why I got thrown off the case – I tried to forge her husband's signature."

"House…"

"Cameron, don't you see that this is the woman's only chance at any semblance of a life – yes, there might be complications, but otherwise she is a fucking vegetable!"

"You're right."

He looks, surprise registering on his face.

"What?"

"You're right," she repeats, "did you explain that to the husband?"

"I didn't get a chance to," he says, "Cuddy wont't let me near him. She might listen to you though."

"I don't…"

"Sure – you're the most cautious of all of us when it comes to ethical delemnas – if she sees that even _you_ agree that this is the best line of treatment, she might agree to the surgery and ECT."

"The last time you appealed to me for a consultation, you had an alterier motive. You lied and fished out an old file."

"I swear this is a _real_ patient, and I meant everything I said the first time about the others taking you seriously – I take you seriously, and that's why I need you to help me tomorrow."

_I. Need. You._

"Ok."

"Ok?" a wide smile breaks across his face, "ok, we have to figure out a game plan."

………

With her lying flat on her back, his head resting on her belly and her fingers playing through his soft, greying hair, they concoct a plan of attack, rehearse their pitch, and agree on the course of treatment.

He falls asleep and she manages to slip out from beneath him, carefully placing a pillow under his head, without waking him.

She tries to relax and lull herself away too, but she keeps playing their pitch over and over in her mind. She is nervous; she wants to get this right for him.

She knows she needs to be fresh and ready for tomorrow, and she thinks she may need a shower and a sleep in her own bed for this.

He stirs beside her, grumbling at first and then whimpering quietly.

His body twitches and his peaceful expression is shattered with a slight grimance – eyes still soundly closed.

She knows he feels the pain, even in his sleep.

She knows his dreams are bad, she has become accustomed to his sleeptalk – his moans and faint cries.

Now he mumbles in his sleep: something about bypass surgery.

The bad dreams and the pain come and go in waves as he moves through the stages of sleep, and although she knows she isn't any help to him, she cannot bare to leave him during a bad wave.

She waits until he settles again, gently kisses his temple and edges off the bed. She tiptoes across the floor, pulls on her jeans, and despite taking great care to remain quiet, she opens the door with a loud creak.

His head lifts immediately.

"Are you going?" he says quickly, seeming to object.

"I… was just going to…"

His expression gets to her. His eyes are wide, and he appears almost… _frightened?_

"I don't have my…"

… _overnight bag: toothbrush, change of clothes, change of underwear… _

_Don't be so anal, he wants you to stay, maybe needs you to stay…_

"I could stay," she says, "do you want me to stay?"

"If you want to," he responds, rolling on his side, facing away from her.

She smiles.

She translates this as 'please stay' and crawls back into his bed.

……….

She uncaps the whiteboard maker and breathes deep – inhaling the pungent chemical smell of the pen along with a full lung capacity of oxygen.

_Phase one: convince Forman, Chase will follow._

She presses the nib of the pen to the glossy surface of the board, and the blue black ink squelches forth, leaving loops and lines as she writes:

F

E

V

E  
R

She takes note of how House sits back, reclining in the chair at the head of the conference table, legs extended, resting on another chair, twirling the end of his cane into the carpet and smiling smugly.

_That's my girl…_

"Fever," Forman says, "I get it – the mnemonic used to remember the features of NMS: fever, encephalopathy, vitals unstable, elevated enzymes, elevated CPK, rigidity of muscles."

After listing off the symptoms he stares at her as if to say: what's your point?

"Right," she says, "can you check each of these off – in relation to the patient."

"Her vitals were unstable…"

"Yeah – because of the starvation and high stressed caused by the catatonia, and because of the meningioma," House scoffs.

"…she had muscle rigidity" Forman continues, "and most importantly, she has been on high potency antipsychotic meds for 35 years of her life, we know that NMS is caused almost exclusively by this type of medication – it fits, Cameron!"

Chase simply watches the argument bounce back and forth, his head moving as if following a ball at a tennis match.

Cameron poses a rhetorical question: "Does she have a fever?"

"No," Forman admits, "but she still might develop it…"

"That's a long shot. Does she have elevated enzymes? Elevated CPK? Encephalopathy?"

Forman shakes his head 'no,' to each of these questions.

"Forman," Cameron appeals to him, "do you think the meningioma may be affecting the patient's response to the medication, or could even be causing psychotic symptoms consistant with the patient's usual presentation?"

"There is a slight chance," Forman says quietly, "but it would be difficult to prove. The tumor is benign, it's small, and as far as we know – it's not causing any trouble."

"If House is right," she says, de-emphasising the 'if,' "surgery and ECT could be this patient's only chance at having a life."

"The surgery won't be simple, the tumor is not easily accessible, and it is likely to recur. The surgery could be more trouble than its worth."

"Forman, the woman is in a chemically induced coma, she doesn't have a fever, this is not NMS," Cameron states, "shouldn't you at least talk to the husband – it's called _informed_ consent for a reason – he needs to be informed about this – it's our job to put our cards on the table, to tell him all of what we know and to let him decide."

Forman nods slowly in agreement.

"_Yessss_," House hisses, the sound filtering through his teeth as he strikes his cane at the carpet in victory.

"You haven't got your way yet, House," Forman says, standing, "I'm going to talk to the patient's husband, this is _his_ decision."

………

_Phase two: gaining the husband's consent,_ rolled by smoothly, with the enactment of _Plan B: House reasoning with (frightening and coercing) the husband_, thankfully falling by the wayside as unnecessary.

Their mission is near complete.

_Phase three: convincing Cuddy: _

"The patient does not have a fever, she does not have NMS," House states proudly.

Cameron glares at him, willing him to back down and let her do the sweet talking. He gives a slight nod to acknowledge this, averting his eyes, allowing her take the floor.

"The patient's husband has given his consent for the surgery to remove the meningioma," she says, "there is a possibility that the meds will work again, once the tumor is removed, and ECT may not even be necessary."

"But the tumor is not easily accessible, it may recur and it's likely that if it has effected the patient's response to the medication in the past, it will continue to do so," Forman adds.

Cameron nods, "In which case ECT would be the best line of treatment, to prevent severe, incapacitating episodes of catatonia."

"And the husband is aware of the risks of herniation?" Cuddy asks ominously.

Forman nods.

Cuddy sighs, dropping her pen to the desk in surrender.

"Do it," she says, "but if I find out that the husband was bullied, or pressured or manipulated in any way…"

"_I_ spoke to him," Forman says, "House wasn't even in the room."

Cuddy dismisses them with a wave of her hand.

She finds herself disappointed to be walking in the opposite direction to him, down the hall. She misses his arrival in the mornings, she misses making his coffee, she misses watching him work, but she tells herself that this loss has resulted in greater gains.

Forman catches up to her and asks: "can I walk with you?"

"Ok, but I'm going down to the emergency ward."

He nods and enters the elevator with her.

"Since you quit, he's not the same," Forman says, "when he comes up against a challenge, he's not so cool about it anymore, he gets… _desperate._ I think he's only just realising how much he relied on you, how much you enabled him."

She nods slowly, contemplating this notion.

"Do you ever think about coming back?" he asks.

"Sometimes, but things have changed."

"He'd take you back, for sure – he knows he needs you to help him get away with things."

_He needs you…_

"Yeah, well he knows I'm always around when he needs me."

She says this suggestively enough to prompt an expression of understanding from Forman.

"Cameron," he says, lowering his voice, "is there something going on between you and House?"

As she exits the elevator she smiles a telling smile, because she knows she can trust this man.

………

Something snags her elbow, halting her stride and pulling her off course.

Months ago this may have frightened her, her natural reaction would have been to tense up and resist – but the element of surprise has worn down. She yields, she is only too happy to be handled by him. She finds herself in the doorway of a lecture theatre.

"You sold it," he whispers, arms snaking around her waist.

He stoops and his lips play over her neck.

"Yes," she giggles.

She reaches up to stroke his cheek and he kisses the palm of her hand.

He smiles at her before returning to the hall.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N**

Thanks to Houseketeer for her patience and crucial suggestions, and thanks to everyone who is following this story, and leaving such wonderful comments.

**

* * *

**

**23**

"You're early."

"I…"

She cannot think of an excuse, besides the fact that she was eager to see him, and activities such as showering and dressing after work, feeding the cat and making a trip to the liquor store did not seem to kill enough time before she was due to arrive on his doorstep.

"Sorry," she offers.

He shakes his head, apparently dismissing her apology as unnecessary, and standing aside to grant her entrance.

To her surprise, she is greeted by the aromatic scent of home cooking, and the sight of Wilson: sleaves rolled up to his elbows, fingers coated with flour.

"He knows," House says, jabbing a thumb at Wilson, who nods to acknowledge this, yet continues to stare at her as if she has two heads and green skin.

"Well if he knows," Cameron says, "why is he looking at me like that?"

House glances at Wilson, who stands with his mouth open, eyes darting back and forth.

"That's his dumbfounded expression – he doesn't hide it well, but he must never have believed me."

She wonders how _'the'_ conversation would have transpired.

_Cameron and I are seeing each other…?_

_I'm sleeping with Cameron…?_

_I'm screwing Cameron…?_

_I'm fucking Cameron…?_

She nods slowly, dropping her handbag on the couch and turning back to House, offering him the bottle of wine.

"You said white, didn't you?" she asks.

"Yep," he responds, reading the label.

"What do you think?" she asks, seeking his approval.

"Perfect."

"What are we having?"

"We are having _blanquette de veau_," he says, in a carefully pronouned French accent, "it's French, obviously: ragout of white veal in white sauce, with onions and mushrooms."

"Fancy."

"Mmm hmm," he reponds, "and for dessert, I'm going to strip you naked, cover you in whipped cream and lick every last trace from your hot, dewy skin."

He speaks loudly, turning his head to project his voice into the kitchen, obviously hoping to garner a reaction from Wilson.

His wish is granted: clattering sounds can be heard as Wilson fumbles with cuttlery.

"For dessert, we are having dark chocolate soufflé," he says seriously, turning back to her.

"Shame," she whispers, leaning into him, "the skin licking part sounded good."

"Oh, we can do that," he says, "after coffee."

She lifts her chin, angling her head so that she is able to peer over House's shoulder into the kitchen. She sees that Wilson has his back turned and so she places a firm, lingering kiss on House's lips. Not only does he accept this kiss – pursing his lips against hers, but at the finish of her kiss, he iniates another, and another. She giggles shyly and turns away, glancing into the kitchen again to see Wilson: frozen on the spot – a limp, wet dishtowel draped over his arm and his mouth agape, exhibiting his best 'dumbfounded expression.' Upon making eye contact with Cameron, his head snaps to the side and he begins furiously rubbing an _already_ thoroughly dried plate with the dishtowel.

"So, how much did it cost to hire the in-house chef?" she jokes, gesturing to Wilson.

"No," House says, shaking his head, "no, no, no, no, no, no, no! _I'm_ the chef – he's just my assistant."

"Right," she says, smiling.

"Give me a break! This French cousine is finiky stuff – one simply must have an assistant."

"I believe you."

"Ok Jim," he calls into the kitchen, "I can handle it from here."

Wilson discards the dishtowel and quickly rinses his hands under the tap before joining them in the lounge area.

"_Three fifty degrees, fifteen minutes, turn once,"_ he whispers to House as he passes to collect his coat from the rack.

"I got it," House snaps.

"Have a nice evening," Wilson says rather sheepishly as he retreats, lifting a cloud of awkwardness from the premises with his departure.

They take a moment to become accustomed to their newfound privacy.

"I don't have candles. You can forget about them during moments of passion and they can become a fire hazard," House jokes, "we could dim the lights?"

She smiles.

"Umm," he says, wincing and scratching behind his ear, "do you want a glass of this?"

He holds the wine out to her. His hand trembles.

She realises that a substantial portion of nervous energy still remains with them.

He is out of his element – his natural habitat has been transformed into the setting for a romantic, candle-lit dinner and she imagines that he must feel as if he is an actor, who has stumbled on stage and been blinded by the hot white lights.

A nasty case of stage fright.

"Yes," she responds, in what she hopes is a soothing voice, "please."

He nods and moves into the kitchen. She follows, and he throws a quick glance over his shoulder.

She is overwhelmed with curiosity. All she had been told was: _"you're having dinner at my place tonight, bring white wine."_

She had assumed they would be eating take out – as usual.

"What's the occasion?" she asks, standing beside him, slipping an arm around his middle as he uncorks the bottle.

He shrugs.

"Good food, good wine, good company…" he offers.

"Sometimes," she says, "you are _so_ lovely."

………

"That was gooooood," House says, dumping his napkin beside his well cleared plate and leaning back in his chair, patting his belly for effect.

"It was," she agrees, "fantastic."

They had indulged in course after course, and the table's surface is cluttered with grimy cutlery and crockery – evidence of their feast. Her plate is spotless – not even a drop of the delicious, creamy, rich chocolate sauce remains, and to her surprise, she is not haunted by compunction. Instead, she feels sated and completely content.

"You ate well," he says, eyeing her clean plate, "I've never seen you this enthusiastic about food. I should cook for you more often."

"Are you trying to fatten me up?'

"Sure," he says, "I like something to hold onto when I'm _slammin'_ it – a bit of junk in the trunk."

Her eyes widen before she sniggers, realising that he is hiding his attempt to broach her eating issues under a cloak of comedy.

"Seriously," he says, the creases settling along his brow, his features falling, displaying a solemn expression, "there's nothing of you."

The concern in his voice is making her uncomfortable.

She shifts in her chair, clearing her throat and dropping her eyes to her wine glass before lifting it to take another sip.

"Do you know why French women don't get fat?" he says, raising his voice a few octaves.

His sudden cheerfulness encourages her to lift her head.

"Well I've never read the book," he continues, "but I assume it's because they understand the pleasure principle. They indulge in the finest cuisine, and then they work it off with a vigorous love making session."

She smiles.

"So," he says, "that means you can eat whatever you want: McDonald's for breakfast, lunch and dinner – three courses every night, just as long as we have sex after each meal."

She throws her head back and laughs her most hearty laugh, and he joins her, chuckling as his hand moves under her skirt, his fingers scurrying up her thigh.

………

His bed is immaculately made.

He is a tidy man, despite appearances. He only takes short cuts where it doesn't count: creased untucked shirt, uncombed hair, a few days worth of facial growth. So what?

His fingernails and toenails are always neat and perfectly clipped, he has dental hygiene compulsions to rival hers, and his smell is crisp and clean: no sickly aftershave (she thinks it makes all men smell like sleazy car salesmen, no matter what the variety: Ralph Lauren, or Old Spice) only the faint, inoffensive hint of fresh soap.

She watches from the leather lounge chair in the corner of his bedroom, as he turns the covers back and reveals yet another unexpected, uncharacteristic surprise for the night – he has new sheets.

The others had been plain blue or plain white – standard cotton, but these are a reddish, burnt orange color and have a vague, luxurious sheen.

Sex sheets.

She wonders what has gotten into him. He seems keen to make an effort – to impress.

He undresses and she takes this as her cue to do the same.

The distance between them and their self-sufficiency in this task seems unromantic and clinical, but she feels that it is just the opposite.

It is easier for him this way – it is simply impractical to roll around on the mattress whilst concurrently removing clothing. On one occasion, combining foreplay with undressing had resulted in her accidentally jarring his leg. Not sexy.

This – the way he watches her intently as she unhooks her bra and allows the straps to slip from her shoulders, _is_ sexy.

It makes her wet.

She smiles at him and slides between the new sheets, which are cold, but impossibly soft. She wonders if they are made from Egyptian cotton. Yet another one of Wilson's tips? She smiles again, at the thought of House shopping for linen, deliberating over thread count.

Her skin is soon warmed by his.

They lay facing one another. He lifts an arm over her and with a hand splayed on her back, between her shoulder blades, he shifts her body closer to his.

She places a kiss between his clavicles, moving up to his throat and his chin.

His whiskers prickle her tongue.

A steady hand cradles her head. He kisses her mouth.

Deep.

His hot tongue slips over hers.

He tastes like black chocolate and spicy liqueur.

She whispers: "I love you," and opens her eyes to watch his reaction.

Eyes closed, he grunts: _"ungh,"_ and kisses her harder.

She is elated with this response – it is far more than she had expected, far more than she had hoped for.

He is already hard, she can feel his erection against her inner thigh.

She wants to make him come all over the new sheets – she thinks she would like to see them stained with his semen (they are his _sex sheets_ after all) and so she begins to stroke him and he moans and bucks to her touch.

He seems to have his own plans, because he reaches down and his fingers encircle her wrist – halting her activity.

He fetches a condom from the bedside drawer and after tearing the foil and rolling the article down precisely over his erection, his hand lodges on her shoulder and he presses her against the mattress.

He slips into her, and she groans _"ah,"_ and draws her legs up at his sides, because no matter how many times she has been fucked, with him, _every time_ feels like the first. She has to close her eyes because his stare is too intense.

He moves in a slow, steady, blissful rhythm – rotating his hips and sliding in deep, and all she can do is hold him – helplessly.

She makes quiet moans and soft sighs with each languid thrust and he kisses her mouth.

"Open your eyes," he requests, and when she does, she meets his blue stare, and comes.

The corners of his mouth twitch into a smile, and after a moment, presumably of indulging in the sight of her come face, he closes his eyes, bows his head and succumbs to his own climax.

………

"I wanted to see you come all over the sheets," she says as he settles in beside her.

He glances at her, wide eyed, apparently surprised by her frankness.

"They're sex sheets," she continues, "they need to be christened."

He laughs.

"Give me fifteen minutes," he says.

………

In the morning, she quietly collects her belongings as she watches him – sprawled on his back, snoring in his delightfully deep sleep, the red-orange sex sheets crumpled and gathered around his hips.

In the lounge room, she retrieves her handbag, and on her way to the door, she has to stop, and retrace her steps when her search for her car keys alerts her to the absence of her day planner.

She finds it lying open on the couch and assumes that it must have fallen from her handbag when she had carelessly discarded it the night before.

Scanning her plans for the day, it is only now that she remembers her appointment with Jan.

The appointment had been forgotten because it had seemed so unnecessary.

………

Waiting at a set of traffic lights, she smiles and drums her fingers on the steering wheel, singing along to The Black Eyed Peas: _Don't Phunk with my Heart_.

As a rule, she _hates_ The Black Eyed Peas, but not today.

Today is a good day.

Today, she is _'dumping'_ Jan.

She stares forward, trying to avoid eye contact with the greasy driver of the 80's model Ford Capri convertible to her right. He has a ginger afro, and his pallid skin is turning a brilliant shade of lobster red before her very eyes. He has obviously been watching her bopping to The Peas, and has taken this as an invitation for flirtation. He lifts his mirrored aviator sunglasses and blows a kiss to her and she has to stifle a giggle so as not to encourage him further.

The bumper sticker on the car in front reads: _'This Car is 'Prayer Conditioned!'_ and the driver's floral skirt is caught in the door. Her attention has been fixed on this flap of material, waving in the breeze, as she has been following this car for the last two blocks, doing 20 in a 35 zone. She has been waiting for her opportunity to pass the Jesus-mobile and she thinks she might have a chance when Mr Cool lays down rubber at the green light, in an effort to win her heart.

As predicted the Ford Capri lurches forward and fishtales across the intersection, and she laughs loudly, before casually flicking her indicator and changing lanes to follow Mr Cool. With a quick glance in her rear vision mirror, at a new angle from the shoulder lane, she spots a motorbike rider who she hadn't noticed earlier.

At first she thinks it is him – the bike is similar to his, and though she couldn't consider herself an expert on bike models, she is sure about the color – it is unmistakable: orange and black. She speeds up to overtake the Jesus-mobile before the lane merges back into one, and after a few distracted glances in her mirrors, she decides that it is simply a coincidence, because the bike rider stays back behind the Jesus-mobile. House would have zipped past both her, and the Jesus-mobile before she had even noticed him. She decides that her theory is lacking in credibility also because she imagines that she sees him _everywhere_. She abandons her surveillance of the bike and continues to rehearse her 'break up,' speech for Jan.

_It's not you, it's me…? _

………

"How are things Allison?"

"Good," she responds, allowing the smile that has been nagging for release, to pull her lips wide apart, "really good actually."

Jan nods sceptically.

"That's great to hear."

The woman's response is feeble.

"Tell me what's been going on for you."

"Greg and I have been doing really well," Cameron states proudly.

She _never_ calls him Greg, but she is sure that Jan would not approve of the fact that they continue to call one another by their surnames.

_Intimacy issues? Is the pope a Catholic?_

She has to be sure to play this right – to get herself off the hook.

"I know he can be difficult," she admits in an attempt to negate being viewed as entirely naïve, "but he's had a rough time in his past and I can really see that he loves me, and he is trying so hard, but it's not easy for him to…"

"Has he told you that he loves you?" Jan interrupts.

"Yes," she spits a little too abruptly, and the therapist narrows her eyes.

Cameron swallows hard and uncrosses her legs, before crossing them again. She hopes that this lie is not as blatantly detectable as she feels that it is in this moment.

She comforts herself, pondering the fact that perhaps this _isn't_ really a lie; it just isn't the _whole_ truth. The jury is still out on whether his mid-coital response constitutes a real declaration of love. She gets to thinking about the first occasion of her announcement of the L word: in the hospital carpark, late one night, before anything significant had even taken place between them. He had commenced this relationship knowing full well how seriously she had felt: surely he would not risk hurting her if he didn't feel the same…

She clenches her jaw, becoming angry with Jan for prompting such doubt. The woman deserves to have it served straight.

"I was hoping that this could be our final session," Cameron says.

Jan's eyes widen and she leans forward in her chair, shuffling the papers in her lap before removing her chic _'I'm a serious professional,'_ reading glasses.

"Dr Cameron," Jan says, after a moment – using her title in an apparent effort to appeal to her intelligence and reasoning ability, "perhaps you should have a think about this, just give it a few weeks and…"

"I know I've told you some bad things about him," Cameron interjects, "and I know you think I'm making a huge mistake…"

"I'm not here to judge you, Allison, but things can change, just like things have changed between you and Greg, but when things _do_ change, we have to give them time – to see how permanent the change will be."

Cameron folds her arms at her chest.

"Dr Cameron, if I can use an analogy that I think you will be able to relate to: when a person comes to see you and you discover that they have an infection of some sort, you may prescribe a course of antibiotics. I'm sure you would tell the person to complete the entire course – even if they are feeling better, because some residual infection may still remain, is that right?"

Cameron nods and Jan seems pleased.

"You see, the same principal can be applied to what we do here, in therapy. It's important to give things time so that we can consolidate positive gains."

Cameron has had enough. She does not appreciate the implication that House is an _infection_ – festering away, contaminating her life.

She agrees to _'give things time,'_ and to contact Jan in the near future for another appointment, but these are empty promises, made only to facilitate her escape.


	24. Chapter 24

Sorry this chapter has been such a long time coming.

Thanks to my wonderful Betas: Houseketeer and Tidwell (yes I have two, how lucky can a girl be?!).

If you haven't read their stories, you must. Houseketeer is the queen of smutty HouseCam oneshots (delicious) and her story: 'Time Is On My Side' is the wittiest, sexiest House Cam fic around.

Tidwell has an imagination like no other, and her stories will _blow your mind._ Check out 'Deathwatch,' you're in for a real treat!

* * *

**24**

She suppresses the urge to _skip_ back to her car – which she had deliberately parked in a _different_ bay than usual: because this day marks a great change.

It is late in the afternoon but the sun is still high in the sky – unrelenting, casting down and reflecting off the stark white compacted snow that covers the knoll beside the pebbled footpath. Cameron squints, her eyes instinctively reacting to the harsh glare and she lowers her large, round framed sunglasses from their perch atop her head. She doesn't like the style: with their obnoxious, tortoiseshell design and their dramatically dark _'I've just had a ten week stint in rehab,'_ lenses. But when Paris Hilton or one of the Olsen twins sport a new accessory, the shoppers have to have it in their greedy little hot hands and the retailers see dollar signs behind their eyes. Supply and demand – suddenly the standard pairs of sunglasses become extinct. There is a simple message in it: don't fuck with the status quo. She is more than happy to play along with it; she is a no fuss kind of individual. She prefers to conform, to obey and comply. Sure, she is ever ready to leave a dent if the occasion calls for it, but life is sweet when there are no ripples on the pond.

And today, things are going _swimmingly_.

It is as if a weight has been lifted from her. She visualises the woman from the _Weight Watchers_ commercial holding the waistband of her oversized jeans to the side, claiming: "I feel 20 pounds lighter."

She remembers the analogy Jan had used in their very first session: "Alison, we can think of therapy like spring cleaning: over the years, your mind has been cluttered with junk and we are going to clean a lot of that away."

"_Damn right I'm cleaning out the junk,"_ she thinks to herself, a delinquent smile lifting the corner of her mouth, _"you're going out along with that mismatching picnic cutlery set and the ugly faded seashell wall prints."_

_I don't need you. _

Now she visualises Jan: stuffed into a dumpster, legs dangling over the grimy edge, banana peel caught in her hair, glasses crooked, shoe missing from her left foot, a forlorn expression replacing her usual smug, _'I have all the answers,'_ demeanour.

Head down, watching her feet taking easy, confident steps Cameron mutters a single: "ha," and then another, and these exclamations soon tumble into vivacious, uncontrollable laughter.

But then she reaches the end of the path, lifts her head and her smile falls.

"House!?!"

Seated on his motorbike, parked directly beside her car, he doesn't respond appropriately to her rude shock, instead he bounces his eyebrows and tosses his helmet into the air, catching it in his leather-gloved hands.

"Princeton Community Counselling Clinic," he says, and she follows his gaze to the nearby sign with its soothing colours and unobjectionable font, communicating the message: '_we are friendly and approachable.'_

He looks back at her, questioning her with his expression, but she is in no mood to explain herself. He has just driven a speed boat over the calm, ripple-free surface of her majestic pond, carving huge waves and leaving froth and bubbles churning in his wake.

"What the…?!" she exclaims, replacing her sunglasses on top of her head and lodging her hands on her hips, "you _followed_ me?"

"Oh, don't tell me you're surprised," he says, "this is _so_ something I would do."

"But…" she starts.

_But what? Things had changed? You were different last night – you were making an effort?_

She wants to hit him – walk right up to him and shove him from his _pedestal_ on that bike.

_Why do you have to make things so difficult? I swear you do it on purpose, you wait until things are going well…_

She shakes her head, scoffing in disbelief.

"Right," she spits, moving behind him to the driver's door of her car, searching for her keys in the handbag gaping open under her arm.

He turns to face her, shifting on his bike.

"Got something to hide?" he teases, arching one of his brows.

"You know what," she says, turning back to him, "maybe I do, and why shouldn't I, huh? You hide everything from me – we never talk about anything below surface level."

He has no immediate retort for this.

"Alright," he says, his voice taking on a patronising tone, "let's talk then – we need to talk about this – let's have a nice _deep and meaningful conversation."_

"Oh sure, I tell you everything and you keep your mouth shut – I know how it goes," she shouts, "why should I tell you? Because you're curious? Because you just _need_ to know? Well I'm afraid satisfying your scientific curiosity isn't a good enough reason this time, House!"

Fishing the keys from her bag, she raises her trembling hand. Conflict is about as natural to her as walking on water. She is a born peacemaker, a diplomat, a pacifist. It pains her to clash with others, and it devastates her to clash with House. He is the opposite; he is a born fighter, a rebel, an antagonist.

"Cameron…" he contests.

She notices the twinkle in his eyes, the way he clutches the handlebar of his bike, the argumentative tone of his voice, the twitch of his lips – begging to fire off one of his perfectly crafted witty retorts. Their heated exchange excites him, rouses him.

"Maybe I want to keep some things private, did you ever think about that?" she yells, her voice quavering, "Maybe I could do with a little space. I need to relax, and stop wondering whether you are watching over my shoulder – scrutinising my every move!"

She is not sure where this is coming from, it is simply spilling from her mouth, from a place deep down, a place she wasn't even aware of – a place that is cold and desolate, forsaken – like a ghost town. It reeks of hate and impugnation.

"You're just…" he starts

She raises a hand, silencing him.

"Do us both a favour," she says, "don't say another word, don't make this any worse."

She is astonished when he complies with this request. He simply drops his helmet over his head, lifts the stand on his bike and turns the key in the ignition. He looks at her once more but she cannot see his face behind the tinted shade of his helmet and she finds it unsettling because she has no way of reading his reaction. He snubs her with the angry roar of the motor as he leaves her in the parking lot.

………

He is waiting for her, seated in the shade on a bench outside her apartment building. His cane is propped against the wall beside him, and he sits on his gloved hands, his knees bouncing and his teeth chattering for the cold.

She rolls her eyes as she approaches him.

"You didn't think you could get rid of me that easily did you?" he says, pausing his shivering for a moment to flash a grin.

"House," she says, "you're exhausting."

He offers her a mock frown.

"It's only cool when you say that in bed," he responds.

"Yeah, well I've lost my cool with you."

He follows her inside.

"Doctor Janice McKenzie specialises in the treatment of post traumatic stress disorder, and abnormal grief reactions," he says over her shoulder as she stabs her thumb violently at the square plastic button by the elevator.

"Pressing it more than once won't call the lift any sooner," he states, "believe me, I've tried it when I've had Cuddy on my trail."

"I'll take the stairs," she mumbles.

He snags her arm as she attempts to pass him.

"She also delivers emotion focused therapy for couples," he continues, "but since I've never been invited along, no one close to you has died, and you haven't been raped, or assigned for duty in Iraq, Dr McKenzie doesn't seem all that useful to you."

She eyes him and he raises a brow. He is playing dumb.

"She sees regular clients too," Cameron concedes.

The elevator _bings,_ announcing its arrival and once again, he follows her.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I got her name?" he says, and it is almost as if he is bragging, "there are five psychologists, four social workers and a psychiatrist at that clinic…"

"You went through my day planner," she states plainly, pressing the button for her floor and watching the doors slide closed.

She remembers finding it open on his couch and attributing it to her own carelessness. Upon reflection, she had remembered finding it in odd positions on several occasions.

"Oh, you're no fun," he says, taking a step closer, grinning and looking down his nose at her.

"This is a game for you?"

"No," he says, straightening his features, displaying a serious expression, "I want you to tell me why you have been seeing a shrink every week for the past six months."

"Yeah? Well you're going about it the wrong way."

The doors open. In the hall, he talks at her as she approaches her apartment.

"You said _'regular'_ clients," he continues, "what did you mean by that? Depression, anxiety…"

Once she has the door unlocked, she steps behind it, raising her eyebrows and slowly closing the space between them.

"I have a key," he warns.

"You wouldn't dare."

He scoffs. "Are you forgetting who you're dealing with here?"

She wants him to be here, only she wants him to hold her and coo soothing words, she doesn't want this interrogation. She continues to close the door until she notices that he bows his head and his bright blue eyes flick to the carpet – she reads hurt.

Defeat.

She opens the door wide again.

He raises his head immediately, his eyes glowing.

"You've missed your last two periods," he says accusingly.

"I'm not pregnant," she snaps.

"I didn't say you were – you're so damn anal about using condoms, _and_ you're on the pill. Amenorrhea is a symptom of..."

"I'm not anorexic. You said it yourself: I'm on the pill, how do you know I haven't been skipping periods?"

"I know."

"You've been monitoring my birth control pills?!" she barks.

At this moment, Mrs Briggs: prying pensioner from room 450A, shuffles past – the wheels squeaking on her portable baggage trolley. She lifts her little lavender permed head upon hearing Cameron's exclamation. She narrows her eyes, scowling, before retreating to the elevator, tut tutting.

"Shouldn't we talk about this inside?" he whispers.

She has only just realised that he has splayed his hand on the door and is slowly pushing it open.

"You know, I'm really not in the mood for your cross-examination," she says, pushing the door against his hand.

"This is about food," he persists, his hand pressing hard against the lacquered wood panel, "but it's not _just _about food, is it?"

She clenches her jaw, steadies her breathing and watches his animated eyes. She is not ready to talk about this with him, she hasn't prepared a response.

"Is it about me?" he asks, his voice quiet and soft.

"Maybe…"

His eyes – she knows they will shine with the same clear, blue, vibrant intensity right up until the very moment that he takes his final breath.

"Can you go now...?" she appeals to him.

"No."

"Please… I'll call you tomorrow."

He seems satisfied with this promise.

His elbow bends and his hand falls from the door. She stumbles forward a step, at the sudden relief of pressure. He drops his head and nods once. She feels a lump in her throat and the nagging sensation of nausea as she watches him turn and limp away.

She asked for space. He has granted it, and now she is regretting her position.

………

Not even two hours have passed and she is pining for him.

In his own way, he had shown understanding. Sure, he had crossed some boundaries – snooped and pried, but he knows no other way. He wouldn't have done this if he hadn't really cared, he wouldn't have been so persistent in his interrogation if she was merely his whore. He wouldn't have acquiesced to her requests and left when she had asked if he hadn't respected her wishes.

Perhaps she had mistaken genuine concern for scientific curiosity. The idea that he was simply looking out for her seems more and more plausible with each passing second of contemplation.

It killed her to see the sadness in his eyes, the way he moved from her door – excruciatingly slowly, so obviously dejected.

Now all she can think of is how much she wants him to return. She wants to hear the rap of his cane, and she wants to throw the door open, force herself into his embrace and bare her soul.

She tells herself that it is for the best: that it had to come out eventually and that it might even be a step forward in their relationship.

She considers a plan of action. Should she call him?

No.

She will make a surprise visit and he will be happy to see that when she asks for time, and when it is granted, she can only spend it thinking about him, and planning her way back to him.

She winds a woollen scarf around her neck, slips her arms into her thick grey coat and buttons it under her breasts. Moving to the mirror in the hall, she fixes a red beret in place on her head. Beaming, she snatches her purse and keys from the side table on her way out.

……..

It is dusk when she reaches his apartment. The sky is an eerie muddle of colours and textures: grey wisps of clouds like torn cotton wool, against a fading dense blue backdrop. The sun is drowning slowly amongst this mess, desperately reaching out with its final white rays. She parks in the street, behind a Volvo, killing the headlights.

Excitement and apprehension vie for control over her mind as she approaches his door, rehearsing her spiel:

"_I'm sorry I haven't told you about this earlier. I have issues with food – yes they were related to you, but it was really more about me. It's become less and less of a problem of late, and I think that's because of you – I am in love with you, and it makes a world of difference. Despite what you might think, I do trust you, and I am going to try and be honest with you from now on..."_

Her shoes make a loud scuffing sound on the sleet as she skids to an abrupt halt.

His front door is wide open: an inviting red-yellow glow radiating from within and casting alluring shadows to dance around the two figures in the entranceway.

She hears a sound… a crackle and pop from the fireplace that she had presumed was purely decorative? House leans on the doorframe and Stacy has one foot inside his apartment and one on the front stoop. In her slick, pinstriped Armani power suit and her black pointed stiletto pumps, she is the picture of confidence and sex appeal. She is giggling and licking her glossy pink lips. She has one hand flat on his chest and the other is tucking a loose strand of her impossibly chic hair behind her ear, disturbing a drop earring: merlot, the color of the wine Cameron presumes the two have been swilling. Her hand moves lower to play with the button on his shirt and the expression on his face is one of pure bliss – unbridled happiness. Cameron blinks to clear the blur of tears and refocus on the scene. House smiles widely and Stacy steps closer to him, slipping her hand down and looping her arm around his waist. She says something and he laughs, throwing his head back and resting an arm around her shoulder.

Cameron's bottom lip falls and she emits a prolonged, shuddering gasp. This noise attracts the couple's attention – both turn to see her, and she imagines that she is a pathetic sight: face swollen and stained with tears. Stacy displays an expression of surprise tainted with confusion, while House's features express pure guilt.

Cameron pauses for a moment, partly because her state of shock is limiting her mobility and partly because she is giving him time to call after her, clamber down the steps, clutch her arms and beg her to see that this is only a great misunderstanding.

But he is still – shamefaced and she can only presume that he has reason to be.

She turns away from them, and beats a steady path down the sidewalk.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N**

I am very sorry for the delay. You see, I have done something stupid – I enrolled in a post grad degree. The chapters might be quite spaced apart, but whatever happens, I will see this story through to the end. Thanks to everyone who is still interested.

Very special thanks to my two betas (and lovely friends): Houseketeer and Tidwell. Without your advice and encouragement this chapter would not exist.

* * *

**25**

Can't get started,

Chemical heart

Every time I get started

You pull me apart

--

Chemical Heart

Grinspoon

--

She thinks it is odd, but the tears just stopped suddenly.

She wants to cry. She needs to cry, but she can't.

She is at a loss.

Something is brewing – hot, pungent, bitter.

Her mind is a caldron bubbling over, the nauseating concoction of anger, self-pity, hate, and the strongest, sharpest brand of melancholy is about to reach boiling point.

She paces aimlessly through the rooms of her apartment.

It is quiet. Quiet and still. Usually she can hear the dull drone of traffic, the soft hum of a neighbour's television, the purr of her cat winding itself around her ankles, the quiet buzz of dormant electrical appliances: PC, refrigerator, central heating.

Nothing.

She can hear nothing but her own thoughts: thunderously loud and lurid.

Stacy looked like a high-class hooker in that outfit – it was too staged, too purposeful. She wonders if he fucked her like he would a hooker, carelessly, bent over the back of his sofa with her expensive slacks caught around the heels of her stilettos. Maybe he stripped her and asked her to keep the shoes on. Maybe they went bare – for old time's sake.

_She left you. She left you – gave up on you, threw in the towel, and this is what she gets? She is welcomed with open arms?_

_I have only ever been loyal, devoted – and this is what I get?_

_It's unfair. _

She observes herself in the bathroom mirror.

The room is dark, she doesn't bother to flick the switch. A sliver of light cuts through the doorway from the kitchen, just enough so that she can make out her image.

Her lips are a straight line and her eyes are cold, but her face is that of person in mourning: puffy, sticky wet skin, her cheeks stained with tears like the glistening silvery trail of a snail's path on cement.

She feels numb. Unreal.

An outer body experience – as if her spirit has passed through her skin, her flesh and bones, blood and muscle – all the real, tangible, corporeal elements of her and has floated up, up, up to hover on the ceiling, looking down, watching…

…watching and pitying the poor, pathetic, victimised woman with the tear-stained face and bloodshot eyes.

Woman?  
No, just a girl.

She turns the tap and bends at the basin to rinse her face.

………

She searches in the back of her wardrobe. There is a dress, a gift from an ex-boyfriend, worn only once (in privacy, and then hastily removed).

She finds it hanging in a drycleaner's bag. She had never taken it to the drycleaners, she would have been too shy. She had simply hidden it here.

A red slip of a thing, passible as lingerie.

Perfect for the occasion.

She feels like a whore, she figures she may as well look the part.

Her jeans and sweater are discarded on the bed. Upon the removal of her bra and panties, she briefly contemplates donning more appropriate underwear, before deciding against wearing any at all.

Ineffectual spaghetti straps, slippery sheer silk caressing her thighs, the hem finishing well above her knees.

She moves to her dresser and rummages through her cosmetics to find her most dramatic shade of lipstick.

_Barcelona Red._

She thinks a more appropriate name would be: _Sacrificial Slaughter_.

After a heavy application of black liner around the rims of her eyes and a quick ruffle of her loose hair, she slips into a pair of gold stilettos, retrieves a small clutch purse, pulls a trench coat on and leaves her apartment to wait for a taxicab.

………

The taxi driver leers at her, offering her a wink and a crooked smile in the rear-vision mirror. She pulls her coat tightly across her chest.

His smile matches the interior of the cab – sleazy and decrepit.

Cracked vinyl on the seats, the smell of stale tobacco smoke mingling with old vomit.

She winds the window down, using the old fashioned crank handle. The frigid air, even though it causes her skin to prickle under the sleeves of her beige trench coat, is enlivening.

The moon catches her eye. High in the sky: full, spherical, ethereal.

It is an intense yellow tonight, and there are grey clouds hanging, as if by strings, nearby. The sky is like the painted backdrop of an elementary school play – sketchy, muddled, disorderly.

She mouths the lyrics of a song she found particularly haunting when she heard it for the first time – at an aunt's wedding, at the age of six.

"_I see a bad moon rising  
I see trouble on the way…"_

It had frightened her to the extent that she had stayed by her father, demanding to be held for the duration of the reception; she had performed a sensational tantrum when her mother had attempted to take her from his arms in order to walk her to the car.

"_Don't go 'round tonight  
it's bound to take your life  
there's a bad moon on the rise…"_

She orders the driver to deposit her in the main street and walks the footpath, waiting for one of the many nightclubs to distinguish itself above the others and lure her in with its throbbing beat. She chooses a little underground place, a place she wouldn't usually frequent, a place where she can play-act. Masquerade and never return.

She takes slow, careful steps in her high heels as she descends the spiral staircase, one hand on the wrought iron banister. The music assaults her, takes over from her heart in keeping the rhythm of her body constant.

Almost immediately she is claimed by a group of those she assumes are regular clientele at this establishment.

They smell potential. Fresh blood. A new recruit.

With a nervous smile, she offers a pseudonym: "Ellie," and hopes that she will never again meet any one of these individuals in the clinic or the emergency room at the hospital.

The gang introduce themselves one by one. Nathanial is a large man with a distinctive nose and untidy blue hair. He wears a black nylon shirt, unbuttoned to expose the greying hairs sprouting from his chest, and a Celtic crucifix dangling from a solid silver chain. His thick arm; tattooed with a collage of spider-webs, daggers, naked women and frightful beasts drapes around the shoulders of Cordelia, a frail woman: drawn, with a sullen expression and petulant, cupid's bow lips. She wears a black agate chocker around her impossibly long neck, and purple satin gloves to her elbows. She stares at Cameron with dead, unblinking eyes as if invoking a silent hex. Astra is a more vibrant type – Cameron casts her as the charismatic madam of a brothel. She has a Morticia Adams hair style, and a curvaceous figure – a black corset embroidered with red roses is struggling to contain her heaving bosom as she calls to the waiter in a booming voice. She raps her claw-like, glossy black fingernails on the tabletop and smiles warmly at Cameron. Damien, a lanky thin man resembling an undertaker in a top hat is obviously _with_ Astra – he has hardly noticed Cameron's arrival because his head nods repeatedly towards Astra's cleavage while his hands grope and fondle excitedly.

And then there is Wesley.

He sits against the backdrop of the deep purple, crushed velvet upholstery lining the booth. The joint is crawling with unsavoury types, but Cameron finds this man's gaze particularly unsettling. He sits with his arms crossed, grinning wickedly at her as if he knows her secret. He wears a leather jacket and sports the moustache and goatee of a respectable bachelor from the Victorian era, perhaps a banker or a lawyer. Despite his sly expression, there is something engaging about his demeanour. He is actually rather handsome.

The party jostles and rearranges to accommodate her arrival and she finds herself shoved into the corner of the booth, her thigh pressing against Wesley's.

His eyes twinkle and his lips twitch – he seems delighted, like a spider who has just felt its web tremble with the weight of a fly becoming tangled in its sticky thread.

Immediately, his hands move to her shoulders and she flinches, anticipating an improper advance. He narrows his eyes, watching her carefully as he eases her coat off her shoulders, his fingertips lingering at the nape of her neck.

She folds her hands in her lap, breathes deep.

_Act Natural_

He asks her questions – endless questions and she stumbles over the answer for each one of them. She tells him she is originally from Boston, and that she works in a music store. Naturally, he inquires about her taste in music and realising she has ventured in too deep, she mumbles something about Marilyn Manson before quickly changing the subject, saying: "do you think I could get a drink? What are you having?"

He eyes her doubtfully before hailing the waiter.

………

She cringes as a jewel encrusted goblet is placed in front of her and she thinks that if she weren't too embarrassed to admit that she had been here, she would have an interesting story to tell about this place…

The ritualistic preparation of the drink – Absinthe – attracts the attention of the others. They cheer and clap as the waiter balances a sugar cube on an intricately engraved spoon above the goblet, before soaking the cube in more Absinthe, setting it alight and allowing it to drop, igniting the insipid yellow-green liquor. The waiter extinguishes the inferno with a jug of ice-water and presents Cameron with the end product.

While the others wait with bated breath, she scrunches her nose, before raising the heavy goblet to her lips, cautiously sampling the bitter anise flavoured spirit.

……..

Three goblets of Absinthe later, she finds herself giggling at Wesley's every word, allowing his warm hand to inch further and further up the inside of her thigh.

Apparently, Wesley is quite the magician. He pulls a quarter out of her ear and manages to transform it into a dollar coin before closing his hand and transforming it once more, into a bottle cap.

He closes his fingers over his palm once more, hiding the cap.

"You don't belong here, Ellie," he says, "but you've chosen this place, you've come here for a reason. You're looking to escape."

Slowly, he folds his fingers back. Her eyes widen in amazement. In the centre of his palm is a single, tiny white pill.

He tilts his hand so that the pill rolls from his palm to his fingertips, where he pinches it between his thumb and forefinger and holds it out to her.

She takes it from him without an ounce of the hesitation or apprehension one would expect to have in such a situation.

Using her forefinger, she rolls the little white pill around the palm of her own hand.

Ecstasy.

Ex. Stacy.

She scoffs at the irony before placing the pill on her tongue, closing her mouth, clenching her jaw and swallowing.

………

Bodies bumping and grinding beside her, against her. She can smell them, feel their heat. They are all so foreign, so alien.

Her head slumps down and she catches sight of her shoes and the parquet floor in the intermittent illumination cast by the flash of the strobe lights.

The dance floor?

With considerable effort she wrenches her head back to see a mirrored disco ball in the centre of the ceiling, and a sea of hands reaching up – swaying like a strange human forest – a dense thicket where the arms are the trunks of trees, the fingers are the branches and the disco ball is the moon, gleaming in all its glory.

"_I see a bad moon rising  
I see trouble on the way…"_

The lights flash frenetically. It is if she is viewing her surroundings as a quick slide show – a series of indecipherable photographs. Like stop motion animation; snap shot after snap shot of faces and dancing poses.

The lights slow to their initial intermittent flashing speed.

Suddenly, the disco ball shudders and explodes and she ducks, holding her hands over her head, sheltering herself. Strangely, no one seems to notice, they carry on with their dancing and their graphically erotic kissing and fondling. She stands, watching in awe as thousands of tiny stars seemingly made from fine cut glass – like glittering snowflakes, fall from the distorted, gaping shell of the disco ball.

Delicately beautiful, each one is unique: brilliant, multi-faceted. They drift slowly down, quivering like dove's feathers caught in a gentle breeze, dispersing over the crowd and dissolving. Cameron holds her hand out to catch one. It comes to rest in the palm of her hand and almost immediately, it pops – evanescent, like a bubble.

Now everything is black, the human forest closes in around her. Tall, ominous shadows loom over her and hands – hundreds, no, thousands of pairs of greedy hands are grabbing for her.

She stoops low, managing to evade the onslaught and escape through an opening in the crowd.

………

In the women's restroom, she barricades herself inside one of the stalls, ignoring Astra's enquiries:  
"Are you alright honey?"

She sits with her knees knocking together and her teeth chattering, panting harshly and blinking in the glaring white fluorescent light.

As her mind sobers, she reprimands herself.

She retrieves her cell phone from her purse and pauses for a moment. Her thumb trembles as she scrolls through her address book, frantically searching for the name of an appropriate aide – someone trustworthy, someone dependable and unquestioning.

She presses the 'call' button, raises the phone and waits.

The voice down the line is eager, concerned. "Cameron?"

"I need your help, can you come and get me?"

………

Pain is subjective. It can be placed along a spectrum. There is a wide variation of intensities and types.

In the clinic, they use a 'pain scale.' Patients are asked to provide the location of the pain, the intensity on a scale of one to ten, and to describe the pain – choosing from a number of adjectives including: throbbing, stinging, burning, aching, tingling, stabbing, prickling…

Right now, she rates her pain as an 8.

Location: head (brain: occipital lobes – to be specific). Type: sharp and strangely cold. Something like Chinese water torture – like the sensation of a steady, ice-cold stream of water drilled into the temples.

No matter how tightly she squeezes them shut – the light permeates the thin skin of her eyelids.

She smacks a hand on her forehead and lets it slide down to cover her eyes. She blinks her lids open, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the small amount of light under the cupped shell of her hand. Removing it causesher pupils to contract in defence of the full assault – yellow sunshine streaming in through tall windows.

The stiff, starchy dull grey sheets and minimalistic décor betray the fact that she is in a man's bedroom.

But, this is not a _familiar_ man's bedroom. It is not House's dark, cave-like bedroom, with its rich mahogany and oak wood furniture, his curious trinkets and ornaments, his Native American design blankets and rugs, his grand inviting bed – deep folds of soft, worn-in linen. No, as she looks around this room, she can only make out cheap, imitation Ikea furnishings.

Spotting her small clutch purse on the Berber carpet beside the bed, she retrieves it quickly in search of her cell phone. Flipping it open, she erases the message informing her of the 37 missed calls and reads the time as 6:00am.

She jolts in surprise when the phone begins vibrating in her hand, _brrrrringing_ and buzzing hysterically. The screen displays her home phone number.

Her finger quickly finds the button to answer the call.

"What are you doing at my apartment?" she whispers into the phone.

"I've been waiting here for you since 10pm last night!" House exclaims, his voice even deeper and smoother than usual, though she detects hint of panic, "where the hell are you?!"

"Um…" she eyes the resting body beside her, "I'm at a friend's place."

"Look, I'm no good at this shit," he says, "so I am just going to cut to the chase…"

The chase?  
_The Chase_ stirs beside her, grumbling and shifting his weight on the mattress. He props himself up on an elbow and squints at her.

"Hey…" he starts, but she silences him with a stern look and a finger crushed to his lips.

"I can't believe you would think that I slept with her," House continues, "but that's obviously what you're thinking so: no, we didn't have sex. How stupid do you think I am?"

_We didn't have sex…_

Sex.

She eyes Chase's apparently naked form, draped in grey sheets. He watches her, yawning before displaying an idiotic expression of befuddlement.

She eyes her own apparently naked form, draped in the same grey sheets.

A new wave of nausea rises in her.

"…she was in town for a conference, she stopped in to…"

She is surveying the room, collecting the evidence as House's voice continues in her ear.

"Cameron…"

_Box of condoms on the side table. Bad. _

_No sign of any open wrappers. Good. _

_Wait, no, that could be bad. _

"Cameron…"

_No recollection…_

Bad.

Unequivocally bad.

Her attention is suddenly focused on House's voice again.

"Look, I… love you, ok?" he spits.

She is still – stunned, flabbergasted.

"Ok?!" House demands.

She nods slowly, before realising the uselessness of this gesture.

"Oh…ok," she stammers.

"Just – come home," he says, before ending the call.


	26. Chapter 26

Thanks to everyone who is still reading. Thanks for the encouragement to continue and your patience in awaiting new chapters.

A special thanks to _**satanhot **_for requesting to translate this story into Spanish for the Italian House Forum – what an honour!

* * *

**26**

"How are you fe-e-e-ling?" Chase asks, his voice low and soothing.

She has heard him using this very well practiced: _'you're in good hands'_ tone with patients.

Her head snaps abruptly as she turns to face him.

"What happened?!" she demands.

"Do you want me to get anything?" Chase continues, blatantly ignoring her frantic inquisition, "water, Aspirin, maybe you're hungry…?"

She shakes her head from side to side, eyeing her trench-coat folded over the brown suede chair in the corner of the room.  
"I don't remember," she mumbles to herself, before turning back to Chase, fixing him with the glare of an eighth grade teacher, "_What happened?"_

Chase narrows his eyes before widening them again.

Cameron imagines the cavity of Chase's skull as an empty room – nothing but dust and old cardboard boxes in the corner, a single bulb dangling and swaying from the centre of the ceiling. Someone has just thrown the switch.

_Aha!_

He has finally become attuned to her desperation, and to its source.

"That was House, wasn't it?" he says, "that was House on the phone?"

Cameron moves to a kneeling position on the mattress, scrunching the bedsheet in her fists and clutching it protectively to her bare chest.

"Chase," she pleads, "just tell me what happened last night when you brought me back here."

"Why?" Chase spits, his voice cracking – morphing from smooth and confident to whiney and high-pitched, like a prepubescent boy, "because you're worried that you might have done something to ruin whatever it is you have with House?"

"Chase, _please_…"

"How long?"

Cameron stares at him for a moment. His eyes are wide and watery. His blue irises are a paler shade than House's. House's irises are a shocking blue, splattered with inky indigo blots. Chase's are weak and grey, like a dull cloud covered afternoon sky, threatening to rain. She considers his features: his young skin – not a wrinkle or a crinkle or a crease, his smooth whisker-free cheeks and chin, his quivering bottom lip. In stark contrast to House, his face is lacking in character and integrity. He calls to mind the image of a puppy – whimpering and pawing the glass front of the pet store.

She has always preferred cats.

She scoffs and shakes her head at him, pulling the bedsheets to untuck them from the mattress, collecting them and bunching them around her body before standing.

"How long have you been sleeping with him?" Chase insists.

"That's none of your business… and what does it matter?!"  
"He's only using you, you know."

"You've no idea…!" she shouts at him, "you've no idea what _we_ have!"

"He's only going to end up hurting you."  
"Right now, the only person who is hurting me is _YOU!_"

She takes a moment to catch her breath.

"Tell me what happened," she says sternly.  
"No."

"Chase!"

"If you're so sure that you love House, then why would you even have to ask me that question?" he contends, "You should know that you wouldn't have done anything to jeopardize your chances with him, right?"

"I was drunk…" she stutters, "I was… completely intoxicated, I'm not worried about what I did, I'm worried about what _you_ did!"

"Are you insinuating that I took advantage of you?"

She fixes her hands on her hips.  
"You've done it before."  
"You," Chase shouts, an ironic grin breaking across his face, "you have been taking advantage of me since the very day we met. You call on me whenever you fall down because you know I'm old faithful. I've always been here for you – at your beck and call, no questions asked, nothing expected in return..."

She interrupts him because his tale of heartbreak is only boring her. She is only interested in getting to the bottom of this matter. "Chase, I am _naked_, what did you do?!"  
"You are naked," Chase shouts, "because you vomited all over your dress, and you were not wearing any underwear!"

He spits these last few words at her as if they had tasted fowl in his mouth. An expression of contempt settles on his face.

_Whore._

She is momentarily taken aback and so her response is delayed.

She swallows hard - her mouth dry and cottony.

"So that's it?" she asks.

He drops his head and mumbles something.

"Then what? Are you going to tell me what happened?" she presses him again.

"Just go…" he says quietly.

"Chase..."  
"No! You can figure it out for yourself. Just take your stuff and _get out!_"

………

She pauses as her fingers wind around the cold handle. She knows he will be waiting for her, just inside the door. Her stomach growls and churns and she blinks her eyes shut, deciding whether she will need to bolt to the closet ornamental pot plant to expel the contents of her upset stomach.

She takes a deep breath, turns the handle and pushes the door open slowly. Sure enough, he sits on the sofa closest to the entrance, holding a coffee mug, his good leg bouncing rapidly – presumably a combined result of the caffeine and restless anticipation. The moment he hears the door creak he lifts his head, discards the mug on the side table, retrieves his cane and stands – striding forward to meet her.

Before she knows it, her face is pressed against the soft warm material of his t-shirt at the centre of his chest. He tucks her head under his chin and his arms snake around her body.

She takes a moment to enjoy…him. Just the smell, the feel and she begins sobbing.

Lodging his hands on her shoulders, he pushes her back, levitating her chin solely with the intensity of his gaze in a David Copperfield-like act.

"What…?" he inquires.

She hiccups a few more sobs.

He rolls his eyes.  
"Look, I told you, Stacy…"  
"No," she interrupts him, "it's not that, it's…"

He raises an eyebrow.

"I went out last night…"

He nods. "Figured as much."

"I got wasted…"  
"Yup, I deduced that from the panda eyes."

"No, I wasn't just drunk, I was… I took a pill…"

"What? What was it?"  
"I think it was ecstasy."

"You _think_?"

"Well you can never be sure – can you, when it comes to those street drugs? Wesley said…"  
"Who the hell is Wesley?"

"Just some guy I met at the club."

"_Some_ guy? What club?"

"I don't… remember."

She slinks out of his embrace and drops her shoes and purse on the floor by the side table. She enters the kitchen, pacing the length of the bench, her bare feet padding softly on the tiles. Arms crossed in front of her, she holds her trench coat tightly to her chest.

"There is a point to this story," House says, his voice gruff, "would you hurry up and get to it."

She shakes her head slowly, watching her feet as she continues to pace. Her vision is blurred with tears.

"Cameron!" House shouts, and it causes her to stop in her tracks and turn to face him, blinking.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," she sobs.

"Tell me what you remember," he says softly.

The concern is evident in his voice and in his expression. He is doing what he does best – drawing conclusions, making assumptions, filling in the blanks.

He walks towards her and she nods.

"When you called me this morning, I was at Chase's house," she confesses quietly.

"I woke up in his bed," she continues, "like this…"

Unwillingly, she opens her trench coat, exposing her naked body to him.

His jaw drops.

He takes a few steps backwards, his eyes still fixed on her body.

She wraps the coat around herself again, quickly tying the sash – her hands trembling. She is sobbing hysterically now.

"I don't remember… I swear I didn't want him to touch me, I didn't want to sleep with him, but I just… I don't remember, and he refuses to tell me what happened. I was completely out of it – I don't know what he did to me…"

House shakes his head, taking more steps backward.

"Wait…stop," she sobs desperately, "House…"

The sound of the door slamming is like a stinging slap across the face.

…….

Jan had once told Cameron: _"there is no point attempting to suppress emotions. They are persistent, vengeful things, and they don't fancy being ignored."_

She had asked Cameron to close her eyes and imagine her emotion as a large rubber-band around her waist. The longer she tried to push it away, the more tired her arms would become until eventually her muscles would give way and the rubber-band would snap back and hit her with such force.

For the past week she had managed to remain stoic and relatively productive at work. Her shifts in the emergency ward had been a godsend – demanding one hundred percent of her cognitive energy and keeping her on the ground floor – away from House in body and mind.

In this way – she had managed to suppress her emotions, but only long enough to make it home and collapse into a pathetic heap – sobbing until her throat was dry, her eyes were stinging and her head pulsing.

Jan was right. The sadness – the _grief_ came back with a vengeance. But as far as she saw it, the rubber band wasn't around her waist, it was inside her front door, waiting for her like a giant sling-shot.

She won't let this be.

She will fight it – in time.

Only now she must conserve her energy, count her losses, recuperate.

………

She has very cleverly filled every spare hour of every day in her week – volunteering to attend every conference, every talk, every case presentation and meeting that arises in the hospital.

Cuddy had hitched an eyebrow and mentioned words including "burn out," and "fatigue induced malpractice," but Cameron had forced a dismissive laugh along with her winning smile and Cuddy had bought it – hook, line and sinker.

Attending her third after-hours presentation of the week – a talk on the latest advancements in angioplasty, she makes her way to the conference room in the Witherspoon wing only to find that she is the first to arrive.

For a moment, she wonders if she has the correct room and she checks her watch to be sure of the time. She is ten minutes early – twenty five in actuality, considering the obligatory fifteen minutes it will take for the other guests to make it – most of them surgeons finishing up their last operations and consultations for the day.

She enters the room, and occupies herself by making a coffee at the refreshments table set up by the far wall.

The glass wall stretches from the ceiling to the floor – the very seam of the carpet and she looks out to see the sun setting – casting an eerie orange glow over the city.

Something very interesting catches her eye. She notices Chase, with his ridiculous soccer-mom blonde bob, weaving through the parked cars of the lot below. This would have been a particularly mundane observation if it hadn't been for House – hot on his trail with a distinctively determined gait and a scowl on his face – apparent even from her height.

She leans forward, her mouth gaping, her cheeks flushing and her heart pounding at the very sight of him.

Chase props the back door of his white SUV open and quickly tosses his briefcase and satchel onto the seat.

House stands behind him – gesticulating wildly – barking some inaudible profanity. Chase turns away from his assailant, moving to the driver's side door and snatching for the handle but House stops him – a heavy hand coming down hard on his shoulder.

With apparently very little effort, House spins him around, clutching a fistful of his shirt and slamming him against the SUV, causing it to rock and bounce in place.

She gasps – her hand moving involuntary to cover her mouth, but she cannot deny that she finds this scene extraordinarily thrilling.

House leans in – his nose pressed against Chase's, his mouth wide, roaring at the poor boy. Chase raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, frantically shaking his head but House persists with his assault, turning and slamming Chase's body against the car parked parallel to the SUV.

She has seen House frustrated – she has seen him angry, even furious, but she has never seen him like this.

He is _livid_ – behaving like a madman.

Chase continues shaking his head, attempting to swat at House's hand, seemingly begging for release, but House only slams his body against the vehicle again and again, eliciting the shrill whining sound of the car-alarm.

By this stage, a small crowd has formed, but nobody seems brave enough to intervene. A few people shout and point, but House continues on as if he were a street junkie, mugging an innocent passer-by for the last five bucks in his wallet.

She watches Chase's lips moving as he desperately argues his case, and eventually House loosens his grip, slowly stepping back.

Both men are still for a moment – panting and gasping, catching their breath.

And then – as if he had sensed her presence, or as if he had been alerted (and he had not, as far as she could tell) House turns – slowly and decidedly, staring directly at her.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N:**

Thanks to everyone who is still reading. I really appreciate your lovely comments and reviews.

Special thanks to **Tidwell **for all the chats, and the constant encouragement.

Warning: Return of teh (rough) sex…

* * *

_You may find yourself_

_Out on a limb for me_

_Could you accept it as_

_Part of your destiny?_

_I give all I have,_

_But it's not enough_

_And my patience is shot_

_So I'm calling your bluff_

--

_Moloko_

_The Time is Now_

_--_

**27**

Late in the evening, he arrives – unannounced at her front door, holding a pair of her reading glasses.

"I thought you might want these," he says, holding them out for her.

She looks at them.

"Oh…" she replies, furrowing her brow and dropping her head to stare at the carpet, "when do you want me to stop by and pick up the rest of my stuff?"

"Oh come on!" he exclaims, causing her to lift her head abruptly, "this was _so obviously_ just an excuse to see you. Do you really think I _cared_ that you didn't have your reading glasses?"

He rolls his eyes before pushing past her and striding into the living room.

He stands with his back to her, eyeing the books on her shelf with a preoccupation that would only be appropriate for a first viewing.

He has thumbed through every single book in her collection.

"Spoke to Chase," he announces finally, his back still turned to her.

"Oh?" she murmurs quietly, approaching him with her hands clasped in front of her, fingers intertwining and weaving rapidly, "is that what you call it?"

He shrugs, "spoke to… roughed up…manhandled… whatever you'd like to call it."

He turns to face her. "He said nothing happened. He didn't touch you."

She nods eagerly.

"I know," she says, "I mean – of course. I knew it."

"You didn't seem so sure of that on Saturday morning."

She averts her gaze and he turns from her again, now eyeing the faded print on her wall. Two kittens in a watering can.

"I haven't seen you for a week," she says in a timid little voice, which draws his attention back. He stares at her with such intensity, his eyes narrowed as they scan her form.

She is wearing her nightgown – a cream satin slip merely covered by a towelling robe: power blue in colour and adorned with a ridiculous cartoon-like pink hibiscus flower motif. The neatly pedicured toes of her bare feet scrunch into the carpet. With her hands lodged on her hips, the robe gapes open and his eyes pause at the level of her breasts.

She drops her hands from her hips, pulls the lapels of the robe to meet and ties the sash at her waist.

"I was worried that you were never going to speak to me again," she adds, wondering if she should proceed, considering the fact that she has surrendered the moral high ground for once in her life, "…you don't tell a person you love them and then just…"

He takes a step towards her and she stalls, frightened by his sudden movement and the severe expression on his face.

"You don't tell a man you love him and then sleep in another man's bed!" he shouts at her.

He inhales a deep breath, apparently calming himself and she blinks at him.

She thinks back to Stacy's last visit in town. She knows for a fact that he had slept with her. She had overheard him discussing it with Wilson, and Chase and Forman couldn't keep their mouths shut about it – giggling and joking like a pair of schoolboys. Stacy was a married woman, supposedly in love with Mark and yet she had slept with House.

_You don't tell a man you love him and then sleep in another man's bed._

The only logical conclusion she could draw from this was that House had believed Stacy was not in love with Mark – she was in love with _him._ She can only imagine then, what sorts of conclusions House may be drawing about her own relationship with Chase, and where he fit into the picture. But in this moment her mind is caught on one thing, and one thing only – the image of Stacy in House's bed. The bed that she had begun to find more comfortable than her own of late.

"I called him because I didn't think I could call you," she spits, "because you were with _her!_"

She emphasises this last word as if it were a profanity.

"But why _him?"_ he demands, "you have other friends, other people you could call on."

"Well I wasn't exactly about to call Liz, interrupt her in the middle of the night and say: _'I'm fucked up on drugs, leave your new baby at home and come and get me,'_ now was I?"

"What about Forman? Even Cuddy?" he shouts, "anyone else!"

"I wouldn't be comfortable having Forman or Cuddy see me in that way, Chase knows me…"

"There!" he exclaims, pointing at her, "there, you said it! You're too _comfortable_ with him, you're too _close_…"

She sighs and shakes her head slowly, eyes closed.

"It's nothing. I've simply taken advantage of the fact that he lets me walk all over him. I don't love him, I barely even like him – I just use him. I know its wrong and I'm going to stop."

She opens her eyes to look at him, and he is still fixing her in place with the same steely glare.

"But you've changed the subject," she says, "I was referring to you and Stacy."

"Well that's simple, there is no such thing," he says, "it's not the same, _we_ are not the same. I realised that the last time she was in town."

He says this with such conviction – his voice is honest and she finds it mildly reassuring.

"If we're going to keep doing this – you and I – things will have to be different," she says.

"Fine," he replies, "I agree. For starters, you have to be more comfortable with me, you have to tell me what's going on with you, like why you feel the need to consult a shrink."

"I need to be more comfortable with _you_?!" she inquires with a small laugh, "I need to tell _you_ what's going on?! House, you're the cagiest man on earth! The only reason I'm not comfortable talking to you is because _you're_ not comfortable talking to me!"

"Well maybe it's about reciprocity, did you ever think of that? You have to give before you can get."

"Yes! That's exactly my point!" she shouts, exasperated.

She is pacing in front of him now.

"You wanna know what I talked about with my therapist?" she says, "Ok. You."

She stabs a finger at him, "You, you, you, you, you. Jan says you are the text book example of an anxious-ambivalent attachment style."

"What?!" he scoffs.

She shakes her head, realising she has opened Pandora's box.

"No, go on," he says, offering her a disconcerting grin, "enlighten me."

"Bowlby says that we use our early relationships with our parents as a prototype for all future relationships," she says hesitantly, "if we have stable relationships with our parents then we'll have stable relationships throughout our lives. If we don't have our attachment needs met as infants, in our first and most important relationships with our parents, then we're unlikely to believe that _anyone_ can ever meet our intimacy needs."

He raises an eyebrow at her but he doesn't speak and so she continues.

"You _obviously_ didn't have your attachment needs met. People with your type of attachment style often have a history of being treated inconsistently and insensitively by a parent. I'm guessing your father. Infants with an anxious-ambivalent attachment style become confused because their parental figure runs hot and cold all the time and so they learn a response pattern where they become easily distressed, but will refuse their parent's efforts to comfort them."

"Bullshit," he mutters.

"No, it makes complete sense," she argues, "you're dependent, but on your own terms," she shouts, "you're so clingy, its like you always have to have me in your sight, you have to know where I am going, when I'll be back, what I am doing, who I am seeing. You always show up here without any warning, you had a copy of my keys cut without asking my permission, you read my appointments in my diary, you follow me places. It's like you're terrified that I am going to leave you. But once you have that reassurance that I'm going to stick around, you shove me an arms length away and say: '_I don't need you anyway, so don't try to get too close.'_"

He has no response for this.

"That's exactly what happened with Stacy, isn't it?" she presses him, "except that she got fed up with being side-lined. Don't you see that it's a self fulfilling prophecy?"

His mouth is gaping at this personal attack.

"Sorry," she adds quickly, cringing and biting her lip.

"Right," he says, "then what sort of _'attachment style'_ are you?"

She sighs.

"Oh come on," he teases, "I bet _Jan_ had something to say about _your_ relationship history – about why you married a man on his deathbed, about why you're interested in a 47 year-old narcissistic drug-addicted cripple with a bad attitude towards life."

"You don't have a bad attitude towards life," she says quietly, and it as if she has thrown a spanner into the works.

Their argument has come to a screaming halt. His expression softens and he regards her with a certain vulnerability lighting his eyes.

"You have a _realistic_ attitude," she continues, "you're not a pessimist, you're certainly not an optimist. You're a realist and I think it helps to keep me grounded."

He sniffs and nods once, his eyes wandering around the room as if he has suddenly found himself in this place and realised he is unfamiliar with the surroundings.

He won't look at her, only around her, like some self-proclaimed psychic, reading her aura.

Finally, his gaze falls back on her.

"Ok," he says, "all of that aside, what I really need to know is: can I trust you, or will you spread your legs for any man the moment you become upset with me?"

The shuddering gasp escaping her mouth and the quick movement of her hand are so completely automated that she isn't even fully aware of her reaction until she views the aftermath. He stands before her – his eyes wide, mouth agape, his hand covering his pink cheek and she feels the palm of her own hand stinging from the impact of the slap.

They stand still like this for a long moment, staring at each other, shocked. Finally he closes his mouth, clenching his jaw and in a sudden movement he discards his cane and takes hold of her, gripping her wrists. She whimpers and struggles helplessly and his grip only becomes firmer – so firm that her fingers are cold and tingling from the restricted blood supply. He leans down, bringing his face closer to hers – his eyes: cold and angry.

"House…" she cries out, and he silences her by pressing his lips hard against her mouth.

His kiss is forceful; he bites her lower lip before his tongue probes inside. He twists her arms behind her back and forces her down onto her knees before kneeling awkwardly with her. He loosens his grip on her wrists so that he is able to begin frantically tugging and tearing at her clothing, and her hands frame his face – her fingers splaying around his ears as she accepts his eager, passionate kiss.

He has her robe open – greedy hands groping at skin and fingers clawing over satin.

He pushes her down to the carpet and she lays back while his hands travel under her slip, tugging her panties so that they roll down her thighs and bunch at her ankles.

Her legs fall wide apart for him and he moves between her knees.

Her hands travel down between their bodies. She cannot see her fingers fumbling over denim and the cold metal studs and buttons, partly because his upper body is obstructing her view, and partly because she is mesmerised by his glare. He watches her so intently, unblinking and she cannot tear her eyes from his. She listens for the chink of his belt buckle, the hiss of his zipper and feels for the serrated edge of his open fly to guide her instead.

She has his jeans and boxer-briefs at his knees and he lifts her hips, takes hold of his engorged cock and eases into her without delay – just the head at first, pushing into her wet, swollen entrance so that she gasps and arches against his body before he pushes his entire length into her.

He makes short, rough strokes and the carpet burns her lower back as he trusts her against it. She holds his bowed head to her shoulder and she is aware of the weight of him – the pressure of his chest on hers, the sharp angle of his jutting hipbone, the zephyr of his breath on her neck, the sounds of his grunting and cursing.

There is a hot, wet tingling between her thighs. Friction – he is soft and hard all at once, bare inside her for the first time, but she is not at all concerned, only focused on the pounding, punching, persistent pleasure.

Her hands at his sides, she frantically scrunches the material of his shirts up, just so that she can feel the slap of his belly against hers.

Something posses her – she is overcome with the desire for power, the need to _affect_ him and so with a violent shove, she manages to roll his body off of hers so that he lies on his back.

An expression of surprise registers on his face but she quickly shuffles toward him on her knees, lifting a leg over his resting body. She reaches a hand down before her to guide his bare cock – still hard and glistening with the cream of her arousal, inside her once more. She gasps as she sits down in his lap, feeling the bulbous head of his erection parting her, sliding in deep. She marvels at the sensation of being filled entirely, of being invaded and she comes, a desperate cry choked in her throat, trembling and swaying above him.

She leans back to brace herself against him, but her hand slips and clamps down tightly on his damaged thigh.

He grunts and curses: "aw, fuck!" his face screwed into an expression of agony as he writhes beneath her.

Shame surges through her as she admits to herself that for a moment, she actually enjoyed causing him pain. She stops herself from speaking her thoughts aloud:_ "you deserved that, you bastard."_

Before he is able to recover, she starts to move on him, rolling her hips, bouncing in his lap, pressing her hands flat on his chest and she grins as his eyelids flicker and he moans softly – pleasure evaporating pain.

"Open your eyes," she purrs, dragging a thumb over his whiskered cheek.

He complies, blinking his lids open. His blue eyes are watery, his wet lashes clumped together in a star-like formation.

"Come for me," she says.

His eyes flick shut again and he arches beneath her, raising his hips, emitting a delightful prolonged groan.

She feels the warm spurt of his come inside her. It is an entirely novel and pleasant sensation.

His chest is heaving with the effort of his short, sharp breaths.

"Off!" he commands, his voice hoarse.

He pats her thigh and makes a gesture with his hand to emphasise his discomfort.

She gently moves off of him, retreating to the corner by the sofa while he sits up, rearranging his clothing and propping himself against the wall.

They keep their distance, like a pair of boxers in opposite corners of a ring, or animals – licking their wounds after a scuffle to become pack leader.

She watches as he retrieves the yellow plastic vial from the pocket of his jeans. His hands tremble as he empties two pills into his mouth. She feels his semen – tacky and gluey and already cooling as it leaks down her inner thigh.

"Did I hurt you?" she calls to him.

He looks at her, a grin lifting the corners of his mouth, "yes, but it was good."

She crawls on hands and knees to meet him, curling her legs beneath her, slipping her arms around his waist and burrowing her head against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I really love you and I don't want to do anything to ruin this."

He nods.

"Maybe we should try a little harder," he says, lifting an arm and resting it around her shoulders.


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N**

I apologise profusely for taking so long to finish this story but my life has been somewhat hectic of late.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and sent PMs urging me to complete this – your kind words are much appreciated.

A special thanks to Tidwell for giving me the inspiration to finish the story this very afternoon!

This final chapter is dedicated to my darling partner, Robert – the only doctor for me.

* * *

**28**

You're cinematic, razor sharp,

A welcome arrow through the heart.

Under your skin feels like home,

Electric shocks on aching bones.

---

Snow Patrol

You're All I have

---

She turns this way and that, shoves her bent arm underneath the malleable pillow and feels him drawing his knees up behind hers on the mattress.

She smiles to herself.

The darkness in her bedroom is almost as comforting as the gentle zephyr of his breath on her neck.

Blinking, she welcomes that familiar sensation… that heaviness of limbs, that certain intoxication… sleep coaxing her easily along…

…and with a sudden jolt, her pillow is snatched from beneath her. Her head bounces lightly on the cold cotton cover of the mattress.

"That's my pillow," he grunts, "I know this one is yours because it smells like fairies vomited papaya and grapefruit juice all over it."

The dull twack of a goose-down pillow against her thigh.

She giggles, snatching it from him and arranging it against the bedhead.

"Actually," she says, "they are all _my_ pillows. This is _my_ bedroom. This is _my_ home."

"Whatever you say," he replies, deliberately nudging her as he turns on the mattress.

Eyes shut, she nestles into the bedding once more, sighing heavily.

"You don't like working in the emergency ward," his disembodied voice floats up to the ceiling where the words collide with the plaster and shower down on her in a thousand tiny pieces.

She props herself up on an elbow, reaches out to flick the switch on the lamp beside the bed. Squinting in the light she finds he is already sitting, staring at her.

"It's… different…" she says, "…challenging."

"Ah huh… did I not _challenge_ you?"

"Yeah, maybe a little too much."

"Couldn't handle it?" His mouth twists into a wicked grin.

"That's not what I was talking about," she replies, "it was challenging working with someone – working _under_ someone for whom you have such strong feelings. You were challenging me professionally _and_ emotionally. I find that it's much easier to keep the two separate."

"So you won't come back?"

"No."

"You _like_ working in the emergency ward?" he teases her.

"It's just a temporary solution. I will find another job. For the meantime it is giving me a new experience, ok? Now can we go to sleep, please?"

He nods, settling back against the pillows.

She sighs and turns from him, flicking the switch on the lamp to throw the room into velvety darkness once again.

She tries three positions before she is happy; back, side, other side. She draws her knees up to her chest and folds her arm under her pillow again. Breathing deeply she awaits sleep's generous offer to take her once more when…

"Why didn't we use a condom today?"

…he speaks again.

She opens her eyes to see his twinkling in the light from the streetlamp.

"We didn't have one handy," she says.

"No," he challenges her, "they haven't been handy before, and you've gone to great lengths to _make_ them handy. This was different."

Now he turns the bedside lamp on.

"You were different today," he says, "angry."

He grins. "You're more fun when you're angry."

"What?!"

"Well no offence – but you were a saucy little minx this afternoon. You fucked me like you hadn't seen a man in ten years, you expect me not to enjoy that?'

"House…"

"It's all about control, isn't it? Restricting your eating, insisting on condoms. Control. This afternoon, that anger gave you control. You let me see how you were really feeling and that felt good."

She thinks for a moment. Maybe he is right. Since the day she met him, she had felt as if he had taken control. She wants it back, or maybe just a part of it.

"Tie me up," he says.

"What?"

"You heard me. Just do it before I change my mind."

She finds herself nodding and moving to the cupboard. Pulling out drawers, she snatches three silk scarves – lavender, gold and crimson.

Kneeling above him on the mattress again, she lifts his arms one by one and presses his hands against the frame of the wrought iron bedhead.

Slithery flicks of silk, tight knots and his wrists are fastened in place. She uses the third scarf to blindfold him.

Giddy with anticipation, her heart pounds in her ears.

She moves off the bed and stands back to admire her work.

Spreadeagled and tethered, his naked chest rises and falls.

After a moment of contemplation, she realises she is frozen in place. Proud.

"You'd better not leave me here," he says, and she is sure she detects a hint of anxiety in his tone.

It makes her smile.

"I promise," she whispers, as she moves back by his side.

She lifts a knee over his resting body and arranges herself on all fours above him. Lowering her head to the curve of his neck she inhales his scent.

Watching the goosebumps appear on his skin triggers a surge of adrenalin within her.

"Touch me," he demands, his voice hoarse.

She observes his cock, already standing straight, straining against his cotton boxer shorts.

He arches up, pressing his belly to hers and she reels back.

"Isn't it funny how this works?' she says with certain bravado.

"The controlled attempts to regain control. You're giving me orders. It's not going to work that way. Don't make me gag you as well."

He laughs – confidently at first and then emits a sharp gasp as her fingers slide beneath the elastic waistband of his shorts, tugging them down and bunching them at his ankles.

She wastes no time taking his cock into her mouth.

She sucks hard and works him with her hands – quickly and firmly.

His exclamations of pleasure sound more like violent sobs.

He writhes and arches beneath her.

She stops suddenly and sits back.

He is panting, sweating.

"Don't sto…" he utters before hushing himself.

No orders.

Control is hers.

He waits patiently.

She counts to ten and traces the arch of his right foot, the bulging blue veins inside his left arm, his clavicles, his hipbones, his navel.

She scoops her hand between his legs and presses firmly on the skin behind his testicles.

He grunts and pulls against the scarves, causing the bedhead to rattle in protest.

She takes him into her mouth again, cupping his balls and sucking gently.

He comes quickly.

It was a gesture, an offer. He relinquished his control – gave it willingly and she kisses him now in appreciation.

She unties him and they lie down together.

"Things have changed," she says.

"Yes," he replies softly, "yes they have."

……..

It takes them three months to settle in their new apartment.

After much debate, they had agreed on purchasing a place together – "neutral territory."

Her apartment had too many familiarities, his too many memories.

It takes three months before he acknowledges the perks of buying real estate with a joint income.

"This place is good. Lotsa space. Close to work. Nice view," he comments.

"I know," she laughs, "that's why we bought it."

She watches him watching the soapy rivulets of water streaming over her torso.

"You've put on weight," he comments, lazily cupping her breast in his hand.

She raises an eyebrow at him, causing him to quickly add; "that's a good thing!"

She nods, smiling playfully.

"A very good thing," he continues, eyeing her approvingly.

The sincerity in his voice prompts her to drape an arm around his neck and stand on the balls of her feet, coaxing him to lean in so that she is able to kiss the tip of his nose.

"Come on," she says, "let's get out. My skin is all wrinkly."

……….

In the grocery store, she fusses with lists – diligently crossing items off, checking for discounts and reading labels.

He watches her, leaning against a nearby pole, eating grapes from a display.

"You're one of those people who eat grapes they haven't paid for," she says.

"You're one of those people who disapprove of the people who eat grapes they haven't paid for," he teases.

She shrugs. "I can live with it."

"Sure," he grins.

"I like doing this sort of thing with you," she says.

"Grocery shopping?" he questions her with a raised brow.

She nods. "The simple things."

"Domestic things," he clarifies.

"Why not?"

"I know you want to be the Catherine Zeta to my Michael Douglas," he says, "but…"

"But you're not into that sort of thing… marriage and kids…"

"Sex addiction and a hot younger wife to take it out on," he jokes in return, "oh I'm totally into that."

"Besides," she says, "we are closer in age then them, their age gap is something like 25 years."

"Oh, I'm impressed," he says, "you've been studying People Magazine. And you're right, we have more of a Tom and Katie type gap."

She rolls her eyes.

"Now I'm not sure who I'd prefer to be compared to," he says, "Michael was cool in his time, sure, but Tom, despite his apparent madness, is more attractive – Top Gun, Mission Impossible. Anyway, the point is, I love you but I am not jumping on any couches for you."

He taps his cane against his shoe, shrugging. "Bum leg and all…"

"I don't expect you to," she says, "I don't have any expectations of you."

He flashes her a doubtful expression.

"Well of course I _do_," she says, "to some extent, I mean I expect that what we have is mutual, and is based on commitment and all the rest of it, but I don't expect a ring on my finger…"

"We'll see," he interrupts, his lips curling into a smile.

It sounds like some sort of promise.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks.

"Let's just see what the future has in store for us," he says.

For once in her life, uncertainty is comforting – even exciting.

She smiles, taking the grape – poised at his mouth from his fingers and placing it in her own mouth. "Ok."


End file.
